My Little Eevee
by Something Less Than Epic
Summary: A new trainer sets off into the world of Pokemon, followed closely by violence, persecution, and his pet Eevee. Set in the context of Leaf Green and Fire Red, albeit several years after.
1. Chapter 1

It all began with a little baby Eevee.

I was ten. An enthusiastic little twit, untried in the ways of the world: my eyes hadn't touched base with the harsh realities of time. I was fresh, and careless.

I'd been playing in the fields around Viridian. I know what you're going to say next: only a damned fool goes out into the wilds without a Pokemon. Well, ladies and gents, I WAS a damned fool, through and through. I'd been sheltered by overbearing parents and didn't even know it.

Well, this day, I'd managed to slip away from them for a few hours. I later learned that they had dispatched the police minutes after I'd disappeared, but nobody found me until I came staggering back into the city with a broken arm and a brown Pokemon prancing happily around my feet.

I was in the fields, dashing around, looking and smelling and tasting and touching: after five minutes I was no doubt suffused with any number of germs. My mom would have been (and later was) abhorred at my conduct, as I was groomed to be a proper gentleman. I'd been bred as such, after all, and supposedly knew my place.

But every boy has dreams, and ambitions, and yearnings. . . yearnings for the world beyond the ball rooms and wine glasses of gentile life. . . yearnings for verdant fields, for bumble bees and the scent of fresh pine, for heroism unbound and foolhardy adventures. . .

Yes, foolhardy described me best.

--

But now I'm fifteen. I know how things work now, or at least moreso than I did: my outlook is, erm, GRIMMER than it once was. Yet my prospects for the future have never looked brighter.

I am, after all, about to become a trainer of Pokemon, and challenge the Pokemon League. And my Eevee will help me conquer the world.

By now you're doubtless expecting the obligatory description of me with which you can spur your imagination on. It comes in virtually every piece of writing, after all: the gallant hero, covered from head to toe in a shimmering frock, a pair of dashing boots on his huge, masculine feet, auburn hair down to his rotund belly, belly button fluff dangling from his brow, and so forth.

(I know the figure I just described sounds pretty silly, but bear with me.)

Well. Obligatory as such things may be, I'll show you no satisfaction. Imagine me howsoever you will, for I am the ultimate in generic: and though I may describe my friends, and enemies, and everybody in-between, I'll say nothing of myself.

My Eevee, though. Oh, how I'll talk about my adorable little Eevee. Every muscle on its frame is coated with downy tufts of hair so silky smooth that it would make for a luxurious jacket. My mother expressed once or twice an interest in its fur, but I pushed aside her disgusting sentiments: after all, had it not been for Eevee, I would be dead.

Its eyes are of the deepest brown, and so innocently penetrating that you'd swear you were staring into a blissful dream that Freud would envy with all his might. You can see yourself reflected in those eyes, and you see your true self; you see everything that you've ever been, and maybe, what you'll become. Most importantly, though, you see an undying devotion, and goodness as profound as can be found in a creature.

I love my Eevee, and I hope I don't press it too hard on my journeys.

We start out on the fifteenth of March. Nobody's there to see us off, of course: my parents disowned me when I told them I had no intention of continuing the family business. Eevee and I have been living in a shack for the last little while, out on the outskirts of town. I guess it was there that I matured into what I am today.

I timed our departure perfectly, weather-wise. The frosts of February gave way to sunny skies two weeks ago, and nature is just beginning to pull itself out of the bosom of blissful sleep. And with it nature is dragging hundreds – nay, thousands – of sleepy, vulnerable Pokemon back into the fields. They're all still tired from their hibernation, and I intend to take advantage of their drowsiness.

I've got seven Poke balls stashed in a bag on my belt. I don't intend to catch a huge number of the critters, mind you – completing one of Professor Oak's Pokedex's is not on my agenda – but if I run across one that suits my tastes I'll be sure to snag it without hesitation.

Eevee trots gaily at my side. It's never without a smile, or what passes for a smile amongst animals: the gentle curve of its jaws create the perpetual illusion of happiness, regardless of whether or not it actually feels the emotion. It notices my observation and peers up at me, panting a bit. I reach down and pat its head.

Our first official battle as trainer and Pokemon (we've practiced before, but never with a live target in mind) comes against a tiny Caterpie. The battle is hardly worth mention, unless one looks at it sentimentally - and I've always been noted as the sentimental type.

I yell out the attacks decisively. Sweep behind it, Eevee, and use Sand-Attack; be sure to blind it before it can spray you with any of its sticky crap. Keep on your toes, Eevee, and use Tackle whenever you get the chance. The battle is short; after two Tackles the Caterpie is down and we're on our way again. As we do I peer down at that Caterpie, who only moments before had been munching away on a leaf without a care in the world. How ruthless the life of a trainer is, that we must defeat animals who have done nothing to us!

I take a little consolation in the fact that the Caterpie is not dead. I take even more consolation in the fact that I don't really care either way.

After an hour of travelling we come to the expanses of Viridian Forest, and I pause at the entrance (which is discernible only by a well-tramped pathway through the trees), contemplating my strategy of passage. Should I start in tomorrow and camp at the entrance tonight? There are tough Pokemon within, I'm sure, and my Eevee may not be up to snuff. It could stand a day of training on the fringes.

But, then, it will probably be more fun to take things as they come. Conservatives don't prosper in the world of Pokemon, or so I believe. So in we trudge, throwing prudence to the wind in favour of blind optimism. Eevee has no complaints.

The woods are not sparse, but neither are they forbidding. We see all manner of life living amongst the branches and down in the sedges. Pidgeys are everywhere, hunting for hapless bugs and giving us a wide berth. I'm annoyed at their skittish nature, as it provides my Eevee with naught in the way of training: but I press on, undaunted, and am eventually awarded with a different prize.

Rounding a hillock my Eevee and I come upon a large Pikachu, grazing on a tuft of grass. It turns and looks at us, a twitch of electricity playing across its cheeks: it wants to fight, I can tell. It's lowering itself already, ready to spring at my Eevee, and so we spring first.

"Sand Attack!" I yell, thrusting a finger forward. Eevee leaps to obey, dragging its tail in the dirt and sending a great puff of brown earth towards the Pikachu. The rat opts to avoid the attack, sprinting to one side and preparing to launch an assault of its own: but my Eevee strikes again, closing its eyes and diving straight through the dust it just kicked up, slamming into the Pikachu in a crushing Tackle attack.

Of its own volition, too. I did not command it to do so.

"No!" I shout, sensing catastrophe. The attack hurt the Pikachu, surely, but it also hurt my Eevee; and the Pikachu, stronger and older, I think, is already recovering, brushing my Eevee off and preparing to let off a light show of electricity. "Eevee, back off! Keep close to the trees!"

Eevee does so, dashing behind an elm for cover. A blast of lightning follows close behind, charring the tree and sending splinters in all directions. I'm forced to take cover.

The Pikachu turns to me, eyeing me maliciously, surely sensing that Eevee's defeat lies in my own. It breaks into a sprint and hurls itself towards me, electricity again crackling around its mousy yellow body.

"Eevee, Tackle! Quick, damn it all!" I jump out of the way of the marauding Pikachu. The electrical current in the air makes my hair stand on end. It lands, spins around, and comes at me again.

Is this the world of Pokemon battling? Is it really so troublesome as all this? So dangerous?

Eevee is out from behind the tree, hitting the Pikachu from the side, knocking the mouse off track and into a bush. It squeals and rolls, pushing my Eevee away again, thrashing its tail in a vain effort to strike furry flesh. Its stored electricity singes the grass.

My Eevee looks injured. It has never been the largest of Pokemon – though not a runt, it is a bit small for its species – and the fight with this Pikachu, a particularly hardy member of its breed, is taking its toll. Normally safe Tackle attacks are harming Eevee, and, unfortunately, that's all it can rely on at the moment.

The Pikachu rights itself, breathing hard but otherwise full of energy. A tough creature indeed. I bid Eevee to hit it with another Sand Attack, and this one sticks: it strikes the Pikachu full in the eyes, blinding the mouse. It squeals, enraged, and begins to thrash anew, coils of lightning licking the air around it.

"Eevee, Tackle at its legs!" Eevee does so, brushing up against a flicker of lightning but ignoring the sting. It rams head on into the Pikachu's right leg, causing a knee to buckle and break; I wince a bit at the loud crack but order Eevee to perform a similar operation on the left. It does so, staggering under the continued electric barrage and a single landed swipe from the Pikachu's claws, sending the mouse sprawling into a mound of burnt grass. It screams and whips Eevee away with its tail, attempting valiantly to get up but failing, failing, failing.

Eevee is exhausted and hurt. Its fur has been singed. I gather it up into my arms and walk past the Pikachu, taking a few licks of electricity myself – but nothing substantial.

I hadn't commanded my Eevee to break that Pikachu's legs. Again, it did so of its own volition.

About a kilometre away (I travel until I can't hear the howls of the Pikachu) I set up camp for the night, and let my little Eevee rest.

What a brutal world this is.


	2. Chapter 2

On that day, I'd gone into the forest.

And I'd come out with a broken arm and my first Pokemon. Up 'til today it has continued to be my sole Pokemon. But what had Eevee done in that forest? Had it saved me? I can't really remember. All I recall is stumbling back from the fields, sweat cascading down my brow, looking at my Eevee.

What had happened?

All I remember is doing something very idiotic.

--

So I suppose you're all wondering why I didn't bother to catch that Pikachu.

It's a popular Pokemon, after all: once Champion Red used one to sweep the Elite Four they became immensely popular. More, the specimen my Eevee had fought was clearly one of superior strength and ability, if only in the physical sense.

Well, I don't like Pikachus that much. More, I didn't feel like dealing with a surly rodent whose legs I'd (indirectly; Eevee needn't have gone as far as it had) ordered to be broken. Doubtless it will carry a grudge against me for the rest of its days (or mine; we'll see who dies first).

Most importantly, however, I have no room in my roster for a cripple.

My Eevee is resting in its bed. I procured (stole) the item from a mall in Viridian. It's actually sized for Nidorans, but my Eevee fits into its soft folds nicely. I suppose it would be more prudent to tuck it away in a Poke ball, but I've never demanded that my Eevee be stuffed into one of those cramped hellholes.

Its eyes are shut, now, and it dreams; of what, I haven't a clue. What's important is its comfort: it'll heal just fine, snuggled up in bed. Its injuries weren't substantial, I'm sure.

Unrolling my sleeping bag, I settle down, munching on a granola bar. I'll have to remember to get more provisions once I pass through the forest – what I have won't last me long. I had to sell my shack to get our supplies in the first place. After feasting, I toss the wrapper aside, zip the bag up, and watch the fire I've built for a while.

Then it goes out, and so do I.

--

The next day I awake to Eevee licking at my face. It's well past dawn: the sun is peeping down through dense foliage, revealing the busy traffic of the forest. There's a small pack of Weedles crawling by a few metres to my right, dragging with them a fallen Metapod. I wonder what they'll do with it. A Mankey is swinging overhead, chased from branch to branch by a vicious Spearow. I doubt the Mankey can elude entrapment forever, and I'm surprised the Spearow would pursue such sizeable quarry in the first place.

I crawl from my bag and stretch. The pop of tired muscles fills my ears briefly, leaving me wondering whether I'm paralysed or not; as per usual, the answer is no. I'm always paranoid, though, that I'll wake up one day and my body will no longer function. A lack of motor skills is my ultimate nightmare.

Eevee seems a bit tense, though otherwise healthy. It's bounding about with loose limbs but a worried expression – did I find it in this forest, or was it a different one? – and I wish I knew what it was concerned over. I don't think it has to do with me.

Trying to anticipate its concern, I pack up the camp, stomp out the ashes of the fire (I don't want to risk burning the whole forest down, just in case a single ember still glows) and start heading back south. Eevee follows me.

The Pikachu is dead. There's not much left of it; doubtless some larger predator picked it clean in the night. My Eevee is satisfied at the sight, and we continue back on our way, battling occasionally, resting occasionally, looking forward at all times.

At the edge of the forest, mere minutes away from a sizeable building, I can see a pair of trainers duking it out. One has a Rattata, the other a Sandshrew; the Sandshrew appears to be winning, as it has just tossed the Rattata into the dirt with a scratch attack. I pause and watch from a distance, not wishing to intercede.

The fight doesn't last long. The Rattata dives back at its trainer's behest, but the Sandshrew is too resilient. It knocks the Rattata aside and pins it to the ground, crushing the resistance out of the Rattata with a powerful bear hug. I'm impressed.

The trainer of the Rattata calls it back and flees, tossing a few coins in the hands of the victor. I could use those coins, myself – that's one of the reasons I became a trainer in the first place, to make money – and decide it would make good sense to challenge the owner of the Sandshrew to a battle.

He's not an imposing foe. A small kid with an inverted baseball cap (why the hell is he wearing it inside out?) and silly green flip-flops. Yet I can't take his appearance for granted, as it has nothing to do with his skill; so I approach with caution, watching the Sandshrew. It eyes me back, those great oily orbs implanted in its skull betraying no thought.

I wave a hand. The trainer, counting his money, waves back. "Heya," says he, "are you a Pokemon trainer?"

I point at my Eevee.

He nods. "Yep, I'll say. Wanna battle? Its not like you can turn it down, y'know."

"I know. I wouldn't anyway. Yes, I'll battle."

"This yer first one?"

"Against a trainer." I fidget a bit, displaying nervousness that I don't actually feel. Eevee and I are going to kick his ass regardless of how strong his Sandshrew is.

"Thought so. You look pretty green."

"As if you're one to talk."

He chuckles. "Hey, no makin' fun of my shoes! I love 'em! That's reason enough for me to beat the stuffin' outta you."

"We'll see about that, I guess. Want to fight now?"

"Sure. Go on, Sandshrew, get me some more coin."

The shrew nods, mute, and scrambles back out onto the field of battle. I gaze down at my Eevee; it barks sharply and rushes out to meet the Sandshrew.

"Go, Sandshrew! Sand attack!"

"Get behind the sand, Eevee! Don't let it hit you!"

And so it happens: my Eevee slips underneath the onslaught of earth unscathed, eyes clear of grit. The Sandshrew looks a mite confused at this; it's not used to battling Pokemon as quick as my Eevee.

"Eevee, circle it and use Quick Attack! Go for the kidneys!"

The other trainer looks at me in surprise but ignores the brutal specifics, ordering his Sandshrew to roll up and protect itself. Too late, however, as my Eevee slips in and slams itself against the Sandshrew's stomach, knocking the hapless creature on its knees with a puff of breath. Still it refuses to make a sound.

I look up into the trees. There are Pokemon watching from the foliage. I wonder if there are any I would like to capture, but they're too silent to make a positive identification on any of them. One appears to be a Beedrill, however.

Eevee is taking matters into its own hands. It's attacking Sandshrew from all directions. The trainer panics; he orders Sandshrew to roll up, tighter, tighter. "Defence Curl! Don't let it hurt you!" But it doesn't work: Eevee is hitting too many weak spots, too many vital organs, forcing the Sandshrew open. The trainer orders a renewed attack but it's too late for that. It slashes and hits naught but air.

For all its kind sentiments my Eevee is a brutal creature. I don't even have to tell it to attack.

But now, I see, one of Sandshrew's random strikes has landed. Eevee is sent sprawling to the ground.

The trainer has renewed confidence. "Yes, Sandshrew! Get up and pound it to pulp!"

The Sandshrew tries, but fails; it has endured too many hits, particularly to the midsection. Its legs buckle and give way. My Eevee is much more successful, rising with relative ease.

(Shouldn't a Sandshrew have more solid bones than a Pikachu? Why is my Eevee having such an easy time beating the crap out of this Sandshrew with Quick Attacks when it harmed itself attacking a Pikachu?)

The other trainer is looking at Eevee. He appears to be startled.

"What's wrong with your Eevee?"

I call Eevee. What could be the matter?

It turns, and I see a tinge of strange crimson; but its eyes are brown, and black, and genuine.

"There's nothing wrong with it. Eevee, finish his Sandshrew off!"

(Eevee should be hurt. The Sandshrew hit it hard. But it's not.)

"No, wait! Wait! I give! I give! Battle over!" The other trainer stomps forward on his flip-flops and grasps his Sandshrew in a gentle hug, nearly enduring a frantic swipe from his Sandshrew for his pains. Upon making contact with its trainer, however, the Sandshrew calms instantly.

But Eevee does not. It continues to circle, looking for an opening, a way to get at the Sandshrew.

"Call your Eevee off!" the trainer pleads, quite scared. "I'll give you your winnings, just please!"

"Eevee! Back, Eevee!"

Eevee dives forward, once, and bites Sandshrew's paw. The Pokemon yelps, though more out of surprise than pain, and tries to go after Eevee; but its trainer restrains it and swears (using the curse wrong, of course; he's too young to have a grasp of proper cursing).

I call Eevee again. It turns, yips, and looks back to the battle. "Back, Eevee! This is done!"

It relinquishes the fight and bounds over to me, victorious. I think it was satisfied the moment it forced that Sandshrew to make a noise. I pat it on the head, give it a treat, collect my earnings from the trainer (still huddled around his Sandshrew protectively, as if I'm about to join the fray), and head out of Viridian Forest.


	3. Chapter 3

I'd been wandering through whatever forest it was that I was in at the time (I don't remember anymore), looking for Pokemon, hoping to come across one, wishing, praying, that I would come across a wild one. I'd not seen any, aside from the odd urbanite Meowth scrounging through the trash bins of Viridian, in my ten years of life.

I'd ducked around the oaks, searching, but not finding: they all fled from me, the Caterpies and the Weedles, Beedrills and Pikachus, Mankeys, Spearows and Pidgeys. I couldn't find any, save one.

Or was it two? Or three, or five, or maybe even six?

Why does six sound so familiar? I think that's the answer. But when I left that forest, there was only one, my little Eevee. And I think it scared the others away.

--

We've passed through the building now, away from Viridian; I walked past the other trainers without so much as a nod or a greeting. Eevee adopted a similarly haughty attitude with the other Pokemon in the room. Nobody seemed to mind, though, as most were just sitting around drinking coffee and discussing battle tactics. Lots of trainers must head through without stopping.

And now we're back in the fields again, the forest behind us, surrounded by rolling hills and sparse plots of trees. The skies are crystal blue and so clear one can almost touch the heavens. Granted, the last thing I want to do right now is ascend to such heights – I have earthly matters to take care of – but it's nice to think about.

Eevee seems tired, and a little irritable. I've been driving it too hard, and I continue to do so. I'll have to let it rest from battling as much as possible until we arrive in Pewter. Therein is our first gym challenge. I would have gone first to Viridian gym, but decided against it based upon the reputation of its leader. He's a tough bastard, by all accounts, not to mention a former champion.

We come upon a great gnarled tree (its species is unknown to me) and I call a halt. Eevee settles down amongst the twisted roots for a nap, and I do the same a little further up its base (but only after checking it for resident Pokemon that might not appreciate our intrusion).

I lie upon the twisted bark and muse to myself about people long past. I've read in history books that all manner of renowned figures put Pokemon to use in their endeavours, and that one can hardly BE famous without a Pokemon at one's side. . . will I be the same when represented in the annals of history. . .?

All (or most) of the great artists had a Smeargle, though saying one possessed a Pokemon in those days is a falsity. There were no Poke balls during the Renaissance. Pokemon were more willing pets than anything else. If one attached itself to you, it was considered a display of your good fortune; or, more, it marked your place as an important figure. George Washington was accompanied across the battlefields of America by a Growlithe; Beethoven composed his greatest symphonies with the accompaniment of a Loudred; even Hitler and his forces put Pokemon to the most vile of uses, granting SS Squads the use of Houndours and Houndooms when tracking down Jewish escapees. Hitler himself is rumoured to have owned a particularly nasty Skarmory, though such things find purchase only in the realm of conjecture.

I didn't catch my Eevee. It came to me. To ME. Does that mean I'm destined for greatness? Because I was chosen, and didn't force myself upon my Pokemon like so many other trainers?

But my line of thought slips away and vanishes into the sky. My Eevee and I are to be interrupted. We have a visitor, perched high above me in the topmost sections of the tree: a Murkrow, black as pitch, crowned with a witches' feathery hat. It's looking down at me with a measure of curious contempt.

I want this Pokemon.

"Eevee," I say, "climb up there and fetch the Murkrow."

Eevee peers up at the Murkrow, then at me, and returns to napping.

I'm not particularly astonished. I didn't expect Eevee to even consider my request, much less follow through. The Murkrow takes grim satisfaction at noting this; I swear its beak is twisting into a grin.

Yes, I really want this Pokemon.

So, bereft of other options, I start to climb. The surface of the tree, slanted and rough as it is, makes this easy – the only problem comes in catching the Murkrow. It keeps hopping from branch to branch, evading my fingers by mere inches each time. It's taunting me, cawing laughter. I consider just heaving a Poke ball at it and hoping for the best, but I know that course of action is futile. It would never work with these crappy, low-grade balls.

So I grab a twig, snapping it free with one tug, and start swinging wildly at the Murkrow. Still it eludes me, flitting back and forth, keeping attentive watch with those beady pupils and huge, expressive corneas. I swear it would dive bomb me on a broomstick if it could.

I will have you, Pokemon.

I yell at it, taunt it, continue my assault, all to no effect. In time, it flies away, and I'm left to bathe in miserable failure as I clamber down from the tree.

My Eevee and I, still alone, continue on towards Pewter. The Murkrow is following us the entire way, I know, but lacking its immediate presence we are solitary yet.

And so as we travel I wonder how my Eevee will help me in the day in Pewter. It is a Normal type Pokemon, after all, and not well suited to facing adversaries of the Rock persuasion. Its attacks won't make so much as a dent in the stony hides of the Gymleader's Pokemon.

But onwards we trek, and I don't think of it any further. Eevee grows ever more irritable as we travel, and begins to snub my company; but as we approach the town it draws back to my side and laps at my ankles apologetically. It needn't have bothered, as I never blamed it, my cute companion.

It's around four-thirty when we arrive on the outskirts of Pewter, and I find myself surprised at how similar it looks to Viridian. Are all towns spit out in a pre-moulded fashion? I could just have been coming at Viridian from a strange angle and not known. In any case we stroll into town and down its streets, watching the idle flow of urban life pass us by. We are rather like ghosts; trainers are so common in Pewter (it being the easiest gym to visit) that we're ignored by the majority of residents. Our pursuing Murkrow, on the other hand, garners a great deal of attention, from normal denizens who try to flee its purported bad luck to hungry trainers who want a piece of it. Much to their chagrin, however, battling is banned on city streets, and they cannot achieve their desires. In any case it follows us still.

We stop at a restaurant for a bite to eat. I order a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of water, and some Poke feed for my Eevee; I order a little extra, too, for the Murkrow, hoping to coax it down from the telephone wire that it's watching us from. It'll have nothing of it, however, and eventually the morsels fall prey to Eevee.

Damnable bird. It will be mine, though.

After finishing we stop at a Pokemon Center and I give my Eevee a booster shot from their revitalising machines. It never hurts to get one's Pokemon in tip-top shape, even if it's achieved through artificial means.

We approach the gym but find it closed, with a sign posted out front saying the gym leader will return tomorrow. The setback is annoying, but only mildly so.

I sit out front, perched upon a large ornamental boulder, and invite my Eevee to accompany me. It does so, leaping nimbly up to my side and settling down on the concrete block. The Murkrow takes its place across the street, perched on a street sign and watching.

This is as good a place to wait as any. So we three wait. Why the Murkrow stays, I'm not sure. It shows no compulsion to join my team, yet it persists in keeping us company from a distance. Nor will it sleep, like Eevee has opted to do once again: it just stares, stares, stares into my eyes. I keep watch over it, too, and over those who risk passing it. I won't permit anybody to snag a Pokemon that is mine.

Eventually, I go to sleep, my fist propped under my chin like The Thinker. I don't think the Murkrow does, though, because when I wake in the night – a vagrant has pushed past us in a drunken revelry, belting out horrid show tunes – I see it still staring at me. Is it to be the same as Eevee, in that it chooses to come with me? Or does it have some more sinister purpose for following us?

Peh, sinister. I somehow doubt as much. Malicious as such birds may be, they're not evil. It must have some damned good reason for following, and I'll wait as long as I must find out what it is.

The next day I'm awoken by a passing streetcar, making its first runs of the day. It's around 6 in the morning. I'm surprised I wasn't arrested (or at least told to shoo) by police; hell, I'm still trying to figure out why I was possessed to sleep here in the first place. My back feels like a stretched out slinky.

Ah, look here. I presume that's the gym leader jogging down the way.


	4. Chapter 4

I recall it better now.

There was an Electabuzz. And a Vulpix (or was it a Growlithe. . . ?). And a. . . Squirtle, I think. And my Eevee.

What were the other two. . .?

--

"Hi," the man says, "were you looking for me?"

"Yes," I reply. "Are you the gym leader?"

"I am indeed. Brock's the name." He's an imposing fellow; at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a stony face. Perfect for the Rock gym, I suppose. "Sorry, but I don't start battling until eight. That IS what you're here for, right?"

"Yep. Don't worry, I'll wait."

He peers at my chosen seat with scepticism. "You might wanna find a different roost, if you know what I mean. C'mon inside."

I hop off of the rock and follow him inside. Eevee follows after letting off a long yawn. The Murkrow, steely as ever, does not move from its signpost. I didn't really expect it to.

His gym is a great and cavernous place, dug deep into the earth. I'd not expected it to be quite so large. Long rows of jagged stones line well-swept pathways towards a large altar. I'm guessing Brock takes up residence on the altar when it's time for a battle to take place, as there's a pockmarked combat pit right in front of the steps.

"It's a little grandiose, but my sponsors insist." He looks a bit exasperated. I nod and say nothing.

He leads me through a doorway at the side of the grand hall and into a small parlour. It looks well stocked with health food of every kind – clearly, Brock is a disciplined soul. (I guess I could already have guessed as much, considering he's sweating fiercely from his morning run.)

"This is the break room for Pewter's gym trainers. C'mon in and stretch out a bit; we've got more chow than I care to think about, and I'm always willing to share with a fellow trainer."

I seat myself on an uncomfortable looking chair (it's actually quite the opposite once you're seated) and accept a proffered sandwich. Egg salad, from the looks of it. Not my favourite, but beggars can't be choosers; besides, my stomach is growling with wild abandon. I scarf it down while Brock is tending to my Eevee.

"Cute little fellow. You going to use him to battle me?"

I nod, mouth full.

"Might not be the best choice, but it wouldn't surprise me if he had some tricks up his sleeve. So to speak." He scratches Eevee under its chin, and the little creature returns the gesture with an affectionate purr. "You planning on evolving it any time soon?"

I shrug and swallow.

"What form were you thinking of?"

"I dunno. Haven't decided yet. I might just leave it as an Eevee. I'm kind of used to it like that."

He hums his disapproval. "I wouldn't advise that. After all, Eevee's evolved forms offer all the moves an Eevee gets plus more. It would be much wiser to pick something and go with it."

"Do you have any coffee?"

"Certainly. Let me brew some." He wanders over to the sink and starts fiddling with a coffee maker. "Is that Murkrow outside yours, by the way?"

"No. It's just following me. I wouldn't mind catching it, though."

"Nor would I. You don't often see them, especially around these parts. It must have come a great distance."

We sit in silence a while as Brock prepares the coffee. In time he pours me a cup, opting himself to go for a bottle of water. He starts towelling himself off, and my old aristocratic roots kick in, saying 'he prepared food while sweating? How grotesque!'. I quash the sentiments immediately. I've endured worse things than sweaty food in the last few years.

"Is Eevee your only Pokemon?" he asks at last.

"Yes." I pat my lap and Eevee leaps up on my legs to make itself comfortable.

"And you intend to take on my gym?"

"Yes."

He rubs his stubble-laden chin. "Either you're gutsy or stupid. Quite frankly, I don't think you'll be able to make it past my gym trainers, let alone me, with only one Normal-type Pokemon."

"My Eevee is tougher than it looks."

He sighs. "Yes, that's what they all say. You can do what you want, of course, but I wouldn't recommend it. You'd be better off going out and finding a Water or Grass type before challenging this gym. They're fairly common, you know, and I doubt it would take you long to train one up."

He's trying to flatter me, I know. It doesn't really work. "I'm going to use Eevee," I say, draining my coffee in a long, burning chug, "and that's that. Thanks for the drink, but I'm going to wait outside until you're open for business."

Brock nods. He commends my fortitude, if not my intelligence. "Okay. Hopefully I'll see you in a few hours, then, and you can show me what your Eevee is capable of."

I nod, thank him again, and wander out the door. His eyes follow me every step of the way, measuring my capabilities as a trainer. Doubtless he's keeping watch on my Eevee, as well.

I resume my spot on the rock. The Murkrow is still across the street. I don't think it has so much as flinched since I left. Time passes, and Brock's trainers start to filter in. Few bother to say anything, casting only a curious eye at the Murkrow. I don't see Brock again, and I assume that he's readying the gym for the day. I doze.

Eevee wakes me at around eight thirty. I see a trainer – not one of Brock's – wandering in to take the gym test.

Should I train Eevee more before I take on Brock's crew?

Mmmm, nah. I hop off the rock and lay a hand on the door, preventing its closure.

The Murkrow starts to caw.

We never make it to Brock. Not even close. The first trainer pummels my poor Eevee. I'm afraid to say that I throw a bit of a tantrum at the loss, and try to attack the trainer myself as my Eevee lies dazed on the floor. Brock comes to restore order in the middle of his own matches by tossing me out of the gym. He tells me not to come back until I attain the proper attitude for battling, that is, one of restraint.

I curse and berate the people around me as I wander down the streets, Eevee in my arms, heading for the Pokemon Centre. They alternatively laugh and look horrified at my temper, all steering far out of my reach.

The Murkrow soars overhead, moving from lamppost to signpost, roof to sidewalk, squawking and leading, mocking our failure. I scream at it, too, telling it that it will be mine.

--

They all surrounded me, and I swear, upon reflection, that one of them was a Murkrow. The last I didn't recognise at the time, nor do I know its species now.

--

"Something is wrong with your Eevee," the nurse says.

"What do you mean?" I've calmed down considerably since being told that I would be ejected from the hospital if I did not.

"I'm not sure. It's not responding properly to the treatment. This should really be a quick fix."

"Is it going to be okay?"

"Well, I think so. Our machine is taking longer than usual to heal it up, though, and that concerns me. Does your Eevee has a history of sickly behaviour?"

"No so long as I've owned it."

"Hm." She taps a pen on the desk. "It doesn't seem to react well to our treatments. We have a machine for non-Poke balled Pokemon, you see, and that's what we've got your Eevee in; it shouldn't work any more slowly than our standard machines, however."

"So what's the matter?"

Her eyes go wide as she ignores my question. "Sir, is that your Murkrow?"

I spin. The Murkrow is perched upon one of the vending machines in the lobby. How did it get in?

"I. . . yes, it is."

I approach the Murkrow. It hops away, alighting on a chair. I sigh and move back to the desk.

"So is my Eevee going to be okay or not? That's all I care about."

"Yes," she replies, straightening her puffy pink hair and gazing at the Murkrow from the corner of her eye. "The procedure might just take longer than usual. We wouldn't mind being able to run some additional tests on it to determine the nature of its problems as well-"

"No," I interject. "I'm too busy for that. Just heal it."

"But there could be something seriously wrong-"

"There isn't. Just give me back my Eevee."

In time, she does, and we leave, the Murkrow close on our heels.


	5. Chapter 5

I can't tell what that last Pokemon is that haunts my dreams. To my mind's eye it looks to be white, with a long, sinewy tail; but I can't remember, I just can't remember. The image is a haze.

I'd gone in the woods, that day, looking to find a wild Pokemon. And I found many. And once I did, my adventure was over. It all turned into a nightmare that resulted in a broken arm and a long, twisted scar across my chest.

Wait. A scar? I don't remember ever getting a scar.

--

I slide my shirt up and check. Yes, there's a scar. Its jagged contours look like a streak of lightning curling its way across my flesh. Fancy that. Eevee looks up at me, puzzled as to what I'm doing; I quickly replace my shirt and scratch its head. It narrows one eye in suspicion and continues to trot down the street at my side.

We've been wandering for a while now. I'm not sure what to do, not sure at all. Losing to Brock. . . well, I knew Eevee would have trouble, but not as much as it did. The Pewter gym trainer's Geodude pummelled it in a matter of moments. Eevee didn't get any blows in at all. What the hell. . .

I'm despairing. I thought it would be so much easier. So much so. . . so what do I do now? Do I try again tomorrow? I know that won't do any good. It'll result in another flattening of my Eevee. Do I train? It would take a thousand years to get Eevee strong enough to fight Rock Pokemon on its own.

Do I give up and go home?

Hell no.

So I continue to wander, looking for an answer, sometimes from Eevee, sometimes from the Murkrow. Neither provides any clues, though the Murkrow is growing bolder. It's tailing us ever more closely, coming within mere feet of my shoulders at times. Yet whenever I spin around and try to grasp it it flees, up and away, taking up a sentry position some distance away and squawking in derision.

Though I'm not openly abusing those around me anymore with beastly adjectives they still give me plenty of space. I'm obviously angry. My eyes are tightly set and hostile. I walk with my hands shoved deep in my pockets. A great, black cloud has settled over my entire demeanour. I am, in short, pissed.

Lunchtime comes and goes and still I have no solution. I have no desire to train Eevee, as that route will take too long; so why even bother? There must be a quick fix, a short and easy way to do this. . . the sky begins to darken, acquiring that glorious orange halo that heralds the setting of the sun, and there is yet no answer.

I seat myself on the side of the road, exhausted from walking without purpose, exhausted from thinking. Eevee sits beside me and chews its fur. I'm mildly disgusted by its conduct but say nothing. It's an animal, after all, and permitted to engage in vulgar activities.

As I sit there I become aware of a conversation underway around the corner of a nearby convenience store. Lacking a better pastime I silence myself and listen in.

"Maybe you should just let it go. If you can't train it properly then it's not worth the bother."

"You know how much effort I put into catching the thing? I'm not letting it go. I'll whip it into shape."

"How can you whip it into shape if it doesn't want to be? The thing doesn't like you. Just let it go already."

"No! I'm not going to be beaten by some dumb Pokemon! Besides, how'll I beat Brock without a Fighting type? He'll kick me around no sweat."

"You could at least look for one that's a little more agreeable. . ."

"Ahhh, forget you. Look, I have to go. We still on for tomorrow?"

"Sure, as long as you don't use that little bugger."

"How'll I train him if I don't use him?"

"Use him with anybody else, but not me."

"But-"

"Either leave him out or count ME out."

"That's so lame."

"I guess you don't want to battle, then?"

"Fine, I won't use him this time. But you owe me."

"No I don't. And now I really have to go. Catch you later."

"Yeah, yeah, later."

The first voice comes trolling around the corner and passes me. It's attached to a girl who, under normal circumstances, I might feel inclined to get to know better. At the moment, though, I'm more interested in her male companion. Rising, I peer around the store.

He's a rotund creature and, like me, looks miserable. A Poke ball is cradled in his hands as he looks at the sky. I make sure to stay out of sight.

A Fighting Pokemon would do nicely. . .

Sighing, he hefts himself up and starts to wander down the walkway. In a moment of malicious inspiration I decide to tail him, keeping a ways away, watching his every move while remaining as inconspicuous as possible (which is difficult when one is being followed by a Murkrow). Yet he doesn't turn, doesn't register my existence, and very soon I see my chance to strike. He's just skirted down an alleyway, presumably to head home. I follow, reaching back into my pack for something, anything.

Something and anything finds its way into my hand.

He totters past piles of garbage heaped high, oblivious to my presence. He must still be troubled; were he not he would've heard me by now. As it is he's trapped in his mind, musing over whatever difficulty he's enduring with his Pokemon.

I'm about to solve his problem. I dash up behind him – it's not hard, as he doesn't look like the fastest creature on the planet – and, gripping my survival knife, I lash out at him. Right at the back of his neck.

(No, I don't hit him with the blade. I fitted the knife with a hard handle long ago. The end is blunt and rock-like.)

He goes down hard and fast, crumpling into a trashcan without a sound. I push him off of it, roll him over, and snag the Poke ball he has clutched in his hands. That done, I tuck a bit of money in his pocket – just to show I'm not a total bastard – and flee.

I set up base on the edge of the town, starting up a fire with what few twigs I can find in an old, used fire pit, and run my hands across the surface of the Poke ball.

I. . . guess this counts as much first caught Pokemon. Clicking the button on the front, I throw the ball.

Before me, crouched in an unusually protective manner, is a Hitmonlee. It looks at me, at first confused, next with contempt. It must not like trainers much. I glare back.

"Hitmonlee, come here."

It refuses, opting instead to settle down before the fire and warm its hands. Do Poke balls get cold inside?

"Hitmonlee, get over here. I'm your owner now."

Both it and the Murkrow (which is seated in a nearby tree) croak laughter at this; the Hitmonlee burbles a few words in its native tongue before falling silent.

"Dammit, Hitmonlee, get over here. I'm not going to go easy on you like your old, fat-ass trainer."

The Hitmonlee guffaws some more (how can it guffaw when it has no mouth, I wonder?) but makes no move to comply.

I grow cross. I'm not used to a Pokemon disobeying me so fragrantly. Sure, Eevee has a tendency to take liberties with its orders, but it has never refused for no reason at all. So, in a display of resolve, I stride over to the Hitmonlee and stand before it, fists clenched.

A bad move, this, as it sweeps the feet out from under me. I crumple to the sound of its laughter, face hitting the dirt hard. I think. . . yes, my nose is bleeding a bit. Looking up, I notice it caressing its leg lightly. The whole springy column of flesh looks powerful as hell.

Eevee watches this all with intense curiosity, and so does the Murkrow.

I'm being made a fool of! Will I let some trashy little (okay, not so little) Pokemon knock me around like this? Hell no. Propping up on my fists I let loose a stream of harsh language meant to intimidate the Hitmonlee, or at least throw it off-guard; I am, however, granted no such satisfaction. Instead it slaps me lightly across the face with one of its feet and continues to rub its legs.

Abused, cheek burning, I withdraw to the other side of the fire. My Eevee licks my hand, and I allow it to crawl into my lap. I keep my eyes locked on the Hitmonlee, and it in turn watches me: but its sly orbs aren't looking at any equal in me. Rather, they're bemused. It sees me very much as an inferior.

I can't force it to do anything. I know that, and so does it. The worst I can do is put it back in its Poke ball, which may not even work. It's probably strong enough to escape. What the hell am I to do?

The moon is starting to come out as I ruminate over a tin of cold canned vegetables. They're disgusting, but I don't really care; my mind isn't concentrated on taste. Besides, in my earlier rage I neglected to buy anything else from the store. I'll have to go shopping tomorrow. Eevee is at my side, chewing on a few tidbits with its tail wrapped around its body. The Hitmonlee is looking expectantly at Eevee's food, as though I'm supposed to nourish it, too.

"Some fighter you are. Go find your own damned chow if you don't want to listen to me."

It huffs once and folds its arms.

I snort, shovel another mouthful of vegetables between my teeth, and let my thoughts drift. Soon, I'm asleep, and my spoon drops into the grass.

I wake up to my Eevee's pawing. It's whining a bit, but not too much; however, it seems to be making a big deal out of the letters that have been etched into the dirt at my feet and illuminated by the glow of the fire.

'Barter with it.'


	6. Chapter 6

They gathered around me, and began to strike me. Whipped, tormented, tossed and thrown about, I survived the ordeal with surprisingly few wounds; perhaps because my Eevee was there to drag me from the fray.

I'd gone into the woods looking for wild Pokemon that day. What I'd found was wild indeed.

As loyal, as trustworthy, as brave as our Pokemon may prove themselves to be, we should always remind ourselves of one thing: Pokemon are animals.

I don't remember anything else right now, aside from searing pain.

--

'Barter with it.'

I look around the campsite, wondering what could have possibly made the sentence. Nothing springs to attention as a possible perpetrator. My Eevee, bless its heart, is too stupid to formulate writing. The Hitmonlee wouldn't bother with such things. And the Murkrow –

Well, the Murkrow is still here, still watching, perched in a tree. But I doubt it would have done this. Murkrows are feisty little troublemakers, but not terribly bright, so far as I know.

Did somebody sneak into my camp? That's always possible. But what the hell are they trying to tell me?

(I know the answer to that, of course.)

But then I suppose it's more viable to wonder WHY: why should I barter with this lazy, stupid Pokemon that's snoring loudly on the other side of my fire? I should bend it to my will and be done with it.

But that won't work. It's too strong to punish into submission. Given enough provocation I'm sure the thing could and would kill me. I can't just bully the creature, because it's too big, too muscular, too. . . well, too much of a fighter. And that's why I need it in the first place.

'Barter with it.'

What do I have to barter with? Nothing. Absolutely jack-all. A few tins of food, at most, and I'm sure it would just take them from me if it got hungry enough.

All this conjecture makes me wonder how it got caught in the first place. I'm beginning to understand, though, as I stare at its coiled legs, why that one trainer had been so leery of it. Assuming the Hitmonlee was the subject of the exchange, that is, and I have no reason to think otherwise.

And now it's looking at me, one eye open, the other locked in blissful slumber. It huffs gently, inquiring as to what I want; actually, that's a little too gentile. My impression is more of a 'What the hell do you want, you worm?'

So I reply. "What do YOU want?"

It shakes its head and goes back to sleep.

I slide a fingernail behind Eevee's left ear (its favoured scratch-point) and rub away. It purrs, content, until it falls asleep.

'Barter with it.'

After a while, I have a plan. But it involves more than bartering. And it requires the assistance of a particularly persistent bird, one not necessarily around to help me out.

Standing before the Murkrow – it has decided to allow me within three feet of its roost – I tell it to spread its wings.

It does nothing, save continue to stare. I curse under my breath but remain undaunted. It may still be open to suggestion.

"Murkrow, attack the Hitmonlee."

It cocks its head to one side. Behind me I hear the shuffle of gangly limbs on grass.

"Murkrow, do it. If you're going to follow me then you're one of my god damned Pokemon. Attack the Hitmonlee."

It lowers the brim of its feathers (how odd, for feathers to have a brim) and peers at its feet. It looks as though it's trying to play the part of an ignorant animal that knows nothing of human speech. But I, I know better.

"Do it, Murkrow. Use Wing Attack, Peck, Faint Attack, I don't care! Just take it on!"

I know the Hitmonlee is closing in on my back. It's cracking its fingers as it comes, each sickening pop closing the gap between my life and my death.

"Dammit, you useless bird, attack! ATTACK! KILL IT BEFORE IT KILLS ME!"

Hitmonlee prepares to kick me and break my back-

And the Murkrow is on it, pecking at its eyes, driving the Hitmonlee away with attacks punishing to Fighting type Pokemon. The Hitmonlee catapults backwards and lands nimbly on its clawed feet, puffing in anger and exhilaration.

The Murkrow looks back at me, and for the first time I detect real emotion in its eyes. God, but it's pissed at me. The expression on its sharp face presents an undeniable message: 'I've got your back, but only once. Fight your own damned battles.'

Eevee has since awoken and is watching from the sidelines with interest. It's not doing anything to protect me, but I can't really expect it to. If it took on the Hitmonlee it would be destroyed quickly. It humbles me to admit as much, but I have to realise that my Eevee isn't the king of the Pokemon world.

I wish I hadn't needed to get into such a dangerous situation, but it was necessary. I had to get the Hitmonlee'' attention. This way it'll take me seriously instead of dismissing me as unworthy of attention.

The Hitmonlee is edging around the campsite, trying to get past the Murkrow so it can rip me apart. I move in the same direction so as to keep my temporary ally between the Hitmonlee and myself.

"You don't like me, do you?" I say to the Hitmonlee. "In fact, you hate my guts. You hate every trainer, I bet."

It lets off a short string of burbled words that I don't have a hope of understanding.

"I don't know why you do and I don't care. It's not important to me. What IS important is getting a badge from that prissy gym leader. And I need you to do that."

The Hitmonlee's laughter is short and forced. Very, very bitter. What did that trainer do to it? Or its past trainers? I bet it had more than just one before I stole it. It continues to circle, a bit more quickly now, hoping to spring past the Murkrow (which is waddling about on its stubby legs in an effort to keep up).

"So I'll make you a deal."

The Hitmonlee shakes its head and takes another step.

"Fight Brock for me and I'll set you free."

It stops. Its motion ceases in mid-stride, one leg extended comically, the other tucked neatly below it. It reminds me of a line dancer.

"No strings. I'll even destroy your Poke ball for you. Beat the crap out of Brock and you're free. No more trainers, no more orders."

I can only imagine how horrible a Pokemon it must be for trainers. I've received only a small taste of what terrors it's capable of. My imagination runs wild. I see it turning tail and running in the middle of important fights. . . attacking its trainers. . . causing undue amounts of pain to other Pokemon. . . is that why that other trainer hadn't wanted Hitmonlee's previous owner to use it in battle? It irreparably harms other Pokemon?

Frankly, I don't care if it does. If it gets the job done it gets the job done.

The Hitmonlee looks very wary of my offer, and probably with good reason. I'm sure it has been duped before, and wants to avoid repeating the experience. But my offer must be cause for salivation.

I wait. The Murkrow keeps a strong guard. And the Hitmonlee, still posing ridiculously, considers.

All the while I wonder who had the balls to sneak into my campsite.

The next day I return to Brock's gym. The Hitmonlee – my Hitmonlee, if only temporarily – cuts a swathe of destruction amongst the trainers of Pewter, eliminating three Geodudes, a Graveler, two Sandshrews, and an Onyx in fairly short order.

I have little doubt that Brock, seated high upon his altar, will not topple so easily as his lackeys. He's looking down upon me, upon us, now (Murkrow has managed to get in, I have no idea how, and it sits on the polished linoleum floor beside my Eevee), eyebrows narrowed in disapproval.

"Your Hitmonlee is a harsh creature. I commend you on its strength, if not its methods. How did you find it?"

"That's none of your business," I snap back.

Brock grimaces and stands. His seat, a gigantic slumbering Steelix, shifts restlessly as it dreams. "I see you're as hard-headed as last time. Pretty cold, too. If you keep that up you'll never make a good trainer."

"As if you're one to talk. You're just some two-bit gym leader. The weakest of the bunch."

This tickles his funny bone, apparently, and he laughs. "You really think the Pokemon I use here constitute my personal team? Gym leaders have to use a pre-set team so they aren't impossible to beat. If I was serious I could crush your roster with my weakest Pokemon."

I shrug. "Shame you can't get serious, then, eh?"

"A shame indeed. As it is, your Hitmonlee will probably win. But that doesn't mean I won't do my best to whittle you down to size."

A referee appears, one of the trainers I've already defeated amongst the stony mazes of Brock's gym. He clutches a megaphone. "Trainer, step into the battle pit. This is a one-on-one battle so you may use one Pokemon and one Pokemon only." His voice is filled with scorn as he addresses me; evidently he didn't enjoy my Hitmonlee bouncing his Geodude on its knee like a soccer ball.

"Gym Leader Brock, please approach the pit. Choose one Pokemon only." To Brock he is respectful, and almost toady-ish. I sneer.

I order my Hitmonlee into the pit. It waves a hand at me in dismissal, as if to say that it doesn't need me to point out the obvious. It's still not very happy about this arrangement, but I've given it a great deal of autonomy in the process: aside from a few obvious move selections on my part, it's free to fight as it wishes. I know it will be brutal as all hell.

Brock, detaching a Poke ball from his belt, eyes my Hitmonlee closely. I can tell he doesn't fancy his chances of winning. He's thinking, trying to come up with a tactic to crush my Hitmonlee with what he has on hand, and coming up short.

Sighing, he tosses his Poke ball into the ring, and the battle begins.


	7. Chapter 7

Oh, well, hell. Somewhere, somehow, he got himself a Sudowoodo.

The creature is smaller than my Hitmonlee, and probably weaker, but I don't take victory for granted. I know little about Sudowoodos but what I've heard tells of considerable toughness. If its strange little smile is any indication, this fight will be tough.

The match begins before the referee can say anything. My Hitmonlee is anxious to gain its freedom, I can tell. Dashing forward it lashes out with a powerful Rolling Kick; but the Sudowoodo is prepared, and so is Brock.

"Catch its leg, Sudowoodo!" he cries, unnecessarily; the Sudowoodo has its branch-like limbs raised and curled already, ensnaring Hitmonlee's tubular leg in a tight grip. Then, with a spin of its own legs, it flings Hitmonlee forward and across the battle pit, releasing at the last second so Hitmonlee doesn't have a chance to land properly.

Not properly at all, in fact: with a mighty crash my Hitmonlee bounces off of the hard stone wall of the altar and collapses. I wince, not so much in sympathy as in embarrassment. That damned Hitmonlee better not screw things up for me. I feel my face flushing red.

Hitmonlee, rising on shaky arms, slides back onto its feet and stretches a bit. The Sudowoodo doesn't bother to chase it, opting instead to stay in the centre of the pit. Brock evidently approves of this and says nothing, keeping his attention on my Hitmonlee.

"Hitmonlee, use Meditate. If you hit it make sure it feels the blow."

Hitmonlee ignores my advice and continues to stretch. Figures.

Brock smirks. "I see your Pokemon has as much respect for you as you have for everybody else."

"Shut your trap! It's just warming up."

"Uh huh."

Hitmonlee begins to circle the Sudowoodo, much like it did with me. It's watching for an opening, a moment to leap in and strike. I hope one comes soon, because I don't think Hitmonlees are known for their high endurance. The Sudowoodo continues to watch, pivoting in synch with the Hitmonlee, continuously stretching its arms upwards as though it were flexing.

Hitmonlee makes another jump at Sudowoodo, this time using the more powerful Jump Kick and aiming for Sudowoodo's head. The results are essentially the same: the branches curve over Hitmonlee's leg and it goes sailing across the pit. The only difference this time lies in Hitmonlee's landing, which is much more controlled, despite the Sudowoodo's best efforts.

"Aren't you going to give your Pokemon any orders? There's not much point in your being here if it does all the fighting for you."

"I don't need any advice from you."

"Fine. I'll just sit back and watch you fail as a trainer."

I grit my teeth and yell at Hitmonlee to use Meditate. It continues to ignore me, resuming its familiar circling tactic. What a useless beast.

The Hitmonlee bounds towards the Sudowoodo and sweeps low with its Rolling Kick, trying to knock it flat; but Brock is prepared for that, and orders his Sudowoodo to jump back a few feet. It does so and dodges the attack completely. Hitmonlee tries to compensate by using its extended leg to pull itself forward and assault the Sudowoodo with its other leg, but again the Sudowoodo is ready at Brock's behest, cleanly blocking the attack.

"Sudowoodo, Dig."

By the time my Hitmonlee has recovered from its attacks Sudowoodo has vanished, leaving only a small hole in its place. How the hell did it get down so fast? I didn't even see it move.

Hitmonlee peers down into the hole for a second only, then springs back to my side of the pit and scans the battlefield. I'm guessing that it's trying to listen for Sudowoodo under the ground, but lord knows if it has good ears.

I'm sweating. Despite my type advantage, I'm losing badly. My Hitmonlee hasn't landed so much as a single blow. It's looking around frantically with all the composure of a frightened child. I try to visualise Sudowoodo crawling around in the dirt of the pit, making its way slowly but surely under my Hitmonlee, and the thought does nothing to alleviate my feeling of impending disaster. If anything it heightens the sensation to new levels.

If Brock is feeling confident or cocky he's not showing it, aside from the occasional smart-ass grin. The rest of the time he's a stony-faced S.O.B. I'd smack him one if I didn't know he could physically dominate me.

"Sudowoodo, up."

The dirt behind my Pokemon explodes – it's facing away from Brock in this instant, which is what he'd wanted – and Hitmonlee is put in a crushing bear hug by Sudowoodo. Hitmonlee burbles its rage to no effect, and Sudowoodo, clinging tightly to Hitmonlee's chest, refuses to let go.

"Here I thought I was going to lose. You're no match for my Sudowoodo, kid."

And I snap.

"Eevee, get in there and help Hitmonlee. Hit Sudowoodo with a Quick Attack from behind."

Before Brock and the referee can voice their protest Eevee does as I've bid, hurtling from my side and towards the Sudowoodo.

"You cannot use more than one Pokem-"

Eevee bounces off of Sudowoodo's thick hide with little effect. The Sudowoodo continues to grin, jolly as ever. Hitmonlee struggles valiantly and in vain, wincing as the Sudowoodo's grip grows ever tighter.

"Dammit, get your Eevee out of there, this match is-"

But my Eevee renews its efforts, perhaps in response to Hitmonlee's thickening screams. It rebounds off of Sudowoodo again and again, beating itself senseless.

"over! Sudowoodo, stop it! Release that Pokemon at once!"

And Sudowoodo does, and Hitmonlee collapses, its energy depleted from the contest; but Eevee isn't about to give up, and neither am I.

I'll have that badge one way or another. Even if I have to kill Brock's entire team to do it.

"Keep it up, Eevee. Knock the crap out of it."

Eevee continues, and Brock rushes onto the floor to put a stop to it with his own muscle, aiding Sudowoodo in its attempts to restrain my furry companion. But nothing avails, Eevee keeps attacking over and over, slipping between their arms, and I'm forced to face an onslaught of my own as the referee screams at me to call back my Eevee, and in my anger I punch him-

And then the chaos is cut by an unusual, high-wavering yelp. And that yelp is drowned out (literally) by a torrent of water.

What the hell?

My Eevee is blasting Sudowoodo with what appears to be a powerful Water Gun attack, gallons of H2O gushing from its tiny jaws. Its eyes, normally a forest brown, are tinted aquamarine. And Sudowoodo, bless its soul, has been pinned up against the base of Brock's altar, flailing madly at my Eevee's unexpected attack.

I swear there's a fin protruding from the fur on Eevee's head. But I don't see much else, as Brock's well-built referee decides to slug me one in the face, and everything goes black; the last thing to enter my view is the great red eye of Brock's Steelix as it begins to move, awoken by the ruckus.

Time passes, and my consciousness wavers. I can't tell if my body wants to be bothered with waking up again or not. There are times when I wonder if it should even bother.

Brock won't duel me again. Hell, I'll be lucky if I'm not arrested.

The waking world decides it would be funny to see if I'll be carted away or not, and so nudges me back to the light. Generously enough, too, it throws in a pounding headache.

I'm lying in Pewter gym's lounge, nestled comfortably on one of its aesthetically unpleasant couches. Eevee is beside me, sound asleep, and the Murkrow is watching from the countertop across the way. There's a solitary Poke ball on the table before me; I'm guessing Hitmonlee is inside.

Brock is there, too, seated on the chair I'd occupied yesterday. He's got a swollen eye. I start up but fall back with a muffled thud. I'm handcuffed to the sofa.

"Not so fast. I want to have a little chat before you skip off into the sunset, and I need to make sure you won't go anywhere."

I spit in his direction but it falls short. He shakes his head.

"You've got a real attitude problem, you know that? Damn sad excuse for a trainer."

"Bite me."

I'm close to breaking Brock's patience, I know, but I don't care. I'm enraged at the prospect of never getting a badge, and it's his damned fault, because I know, I KNOW he won't give me one, whether I win or lose in a fight against him.

"First question. Where'd you get that Eevee?"

"I said 'bite me'. Open your ears alongside your eyes, would you? Why the hell should I answer any of your questions?"

"Fine, whatever. It doesn't much matter. Second: have you ever tried to evolve your Eevee before?"

"I told you last time I was in this dump that I hadn't."

"Not quite, but I'd guessed as much from what you said. Hrm." He sits back, deep in thought.

"Where the hell did you get these handcuffs, anyway? Did you mug a cop?"

Mentioning the handcuffs snaps Brock from his musing, and he blushes – but only for a second. "Wha? Uh. . . I used. . . shut up, I'm asking the questions here. Don't get off-topic."

I sneer.

"Has it ever shown any bizarre behaviour when battling before?"

"Got a nice lounge here."

And then he's up on his feet, anger finally within his grasp. "You moron, pay attention! That furry little creature could get you killed if you're not careful!"

I'm taken aback by his words but try not to show it. "Like hell. My Eevee wouldn't hurt me. YOU'RE the moron!"

"How would you know? You sure like to get IT hurt. What were you thinking, ordering it to attack my Sudowoodo? It could've dashed its brains out if it kept up those Quick Attacks. What kind of irresponsible-"

"SHUT UP! IT'S NOT YOUR GOD DAMNED POKEMON SO JUST SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"

I'm sweating, veins pumping adrenaline.

My outburst silences Brock, but does not intimidate him. Instead, he collects himself – my scream serves as a check on his emotions, quite contrary to what I'd intended – and sits back in his chair, folding one leg over the other.

"Let me go. Get these cuffs off me."

"No. I have something to tell you first, whether you listen or not."

"Then get it over with."

"Very well. That Eevee is dangerous. It can do things – if that Water Gun was any indication – normal Eevees can't. There's something very wrong with it, and I strongly suggest you take it in for tests."

"Blow me. You don't have the right to tell me what to do, especially now that you won't be fighting me in a gym battle."

He nods. "Yes, that's correct. You're never going to set foot in my gym again. I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah. So I'm screwed for the Pokemon league. Thanks a lot."

"You talk like I'm to blame for your idiocy." He snorts. "You're not screwed. It's just that your options for applying to the league have been reduced."

"Say what?"

"I'm never going to let you into my gym again. Nor will any other gym leader, if I have anything to say about it. However, you can still earn our gym badges."

What? My dreams live yet? "Tell me how."

"Say 'please', for the love of god. Stop being such a stuck-up prick."

"Eat me."

"You want my badge or not?"

"Ergh. PLEASE tell me what I can do, oh grand jackass of Pewter."

"Yeah, whatever, kid. Look. Your only recourse is to fight the gym leaders outside of their gyms. That means taking me on while I'm in the field. Capiche?"

"That doesn't sound bad at all. Just means I don't have to take on all those other trainers and tire my Pokemon out."

"Don't be so quick to presume. You won't be facing our gym Pokemon."

"Meaning. . .?"

He sighs. "We just talked about this a while ago. . . look, when we're out in the field, we don't use our gym Pokemon. We use our own teams. Meaning, if you fight me in the field, you're taking on those Pokemon I've spent years and years training up. Like my Steelix, which you probably noticed I was sitting on."

"Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Sherlock."

"Don't you get it? Gym leaders are highly experienced trainers. You won't be beating us any time soon, if ever. Your chances of succeeding in the league have diminished considerably thanks to your impetuous nature. And if you don't rein yourself in we'll refuse to fight you no matter WHERE we are. You'll be kicked out of the running completely. Maybe even arrested."

Go to hell.

"I'm guessing you'll be doing that, despite the odds?"

"Of course. It's not like I have a choice."

"True."

We sit quiet for a moment. He's looking at my Eevee, studying it as though it's some kind of freak.

"Ugh. You're the most stubborn, arrogant little bastard I've ever met. Go on, get out of here. And take your Eevee with you. It's banned from my gym, too."

He releases me, and I leave, though I want to ask him a hundred questions. Maybe I'll find somebody else to answer them for me.

At least I still have a path to follow, narrower though it may be.


	8. Chapter 8

So I've been banned from the gyms. So I have to fight the gym leaders on their own terms, and not the terms of their institutions. Beating them under those conditions will just make my victory all the sweeter.

To do so, though, I'll have to build up a formidable team of Pokemon.

Hitmonlee is still slumbering inside its Poke ball. As I pass out of Pewter and into the highlands of the east, I take said ball, spit on it, and casually toss it into a stream.

My team has no place for disobedient, useless Pokemon. I watch as Hitmonlee's Poke ball tumbles away, carried by icy spring waters to an unknown fate. Doubtless it will try and kill me for breaking my promise should it ever escape its Poke ball, but in all fairness it failed to uphold its end of our bargain. Why should I care what happens to it?

Kinda sucks to be down to one Pokemon again, though.

We wander into the mountains, my Eevee and I, with Murkrow close on our tails. It has grown ever bolder, and now will occasionally perch itself on my shoulder. I know, though, that it has no intention of ever battling for me again, and I should not count on it in a pinch.

As we pick our way through one particularly overgrown field – it's composed largely of untamed wheat stalks – I notice that my Eevee's ears have pricked up. It can hear something that I'm ignorant of.

"What is it, Eevee?" I ask, and instantly chastise myself. It's not as though Eevee can answer me. Yet it does, after its own fashion, by yipping at me and diving into the underbrush, its tail waving in a frantic 'come on, come on' motion. I dash forward in pursuit, but my movements are greatly hampered by the thick stalks, and I quickly lose sight of Eevee. The Murkrow soars overhead and caws in amusement.

I follow after the rapid scamper of my Eevee. Panic begins to well up in my breast. Seldom are the times that I'm visually separated from Eevee, especially out in the field. Without it I'm defenceless. More, I'm forced to recognise my naked loneliness. But, wait: there's a clearing, and my Eevee stands on the edge of it. The wheat has been pounded down haphazardly. In the middle of the clearing is a small, circular nest, filled to the brim with eggs, and above it floats a powerful looking Pidgeotto, beating its wings and squawking in alarm.

Standing before the nest with its horns spread wide is one of the bravest (or stupidest; perhaps 'ballsiest' is the preferred middle ground) Pokemon I think I've ever seen: a Pinsir. It has its back turned to us, and I take some time to admire its taut muscles, strung compactly under a brown exoskeleton.

I want it. But first I want it to prove its mettle. My guess is that it wants the Pidgeotto's eggs, which I approve of; I have little use for grass-munchers.

The Pinsir's arms are up, ready to take hold of the Pidgeotto if it makes a move, but I know that its main weapons are those huge horns on its head. The thorns (a horn's thorns? How drole!) lining each curved bone would keep any creature detained to doomsday and back. For its part the Pidgeotto, despite having the type advantage, looks positively blanched, and judging by a few wicked scars running deep on its body I get the feeling that this Pinsir has made forays against its nest before.

I settle down on the flattened wheat and watch with great interest. Eevee joins me. The Murkrow continues to circle overhead.

The Pidgeotto attempts to punish Pinsir with a sweeping Whirlwind attack, but it fails; in a display of impressive steadfastness Pinsir braces itself, digging its claws deep into the ground and weathering the great gust of wind sent its way. I find myself clutching nearby stalks of wheat to keep from blowing away, and Eevee crawls into my lap. A few Bug Pokemon flop out of the flattened wheat and sail off into the distance, mostly Caterpies. Pidgeotto sends more and more gales our way but all to no effect. The Pinsir refuses to budge.

Equally stubborn, the Pidgeotto will not abandon its nest to the Pinsir, and continues to beat its wings just above the mound. It switches its tactics to something more painful to a Bug Pokemon, utilising Gust attacks to do in the Pinsir. A decent idea, but faulty, as Gusts do not blow nearly as hard: and in that context the Pinsir is given its chance to strike. Pushing down on its legs it springs up at the Pidgeotto, horns opening to embrace the bird, but it is not successful. In its agitated state the Pidgeotto manages to dart away and resume its Gust attacks from a higher vantage point. The winds whip the Pinsir to the ground and it lands in a heap.

I can tell just by looking at its eye that it knows we're here.

'Barter with it.'

I'll keep those words in mind from now on.

"If you'll agree to join us," I call out, "I'll help you get those eggs, not to mention many others. Enough to keep you full for a lifetime!"

It nods eagerly at the prospect of food. Perhaps not the ripest banana on the tree, but, who cares.

(It occurs to me now that the clearing was probably made by the Pidgeotto using its Gust attacks to pound the wheat flat. Why I'm only thinking of this as I'm preparing to enter the fray is completely beyond me.)

As a test I order Eevee to use Water Gun on the Pidgeotto. The command elicits nothing more than a confused tilt of the head from my pet. Figures. Well, it was worth a shot. "Right, forget that. Eevee, get behind that Pidgeotto and use Quick Attack on its spine!"

Eevee gets behind it, but I know full well that it won't be able to reach the Pidgeotto. Its legs are too weak to propel it that high into the air. It is a simple, hasty ruse, but an effective one, because the Pidgeotto, listening to my orders, tracks my Eevee and turns its back on the Pinsir: and the Pinsir, while not bright, knows enough to take advantage of a stupider enemy. Within seconds it's leaping forward again, and this time its horns find purchase around the Pidgeotto's wings. Its thorns rip through Pidgeotto's feathers as the two plummet to the ground.

"C'mon back, Eevee. Good work." I toss it a treat from one of my pouches as it returns to my side, panting gleefully at its success.

The Pinsir is ruthlessly efficient. Moments after landing it has risen, the Pidgeotto squirming and screaming shrilly in Pinsir's horns as they grow ever tighter. Soon it will tear the Pidgeotto in half. Before it does, though, the Pinsir delights in performing a particularly devilish act: it lets the Pidgeotto watch as it devours the eggs from the nest, sliding them one by one down its elongated gullet.

"Let's go, Eevee. It'll catch up." I'm getting hungry, and I don't want the sight of a dead Pidgeotto to spoil my appetite. Besides, its screams are annoying. We wander out of range and the Pinsir, either out of respect for us or hatred for its enemy, waits until we're gone before finishing off the Pidgeotto.

Several minutes later we are indeed joined by our new travelling companion, its horns dripping with gore. It accepts enclosure within a Poke ball without a fuss. I suspect that it's quite lazy when not battling, which is fine with me. At least now I can claim to be a proper trainer, since I've finally 'caught' something.


	9. Chapter 9

A few kilometres removed from Mt. Moon, I set up camp. As I do so I allow my Pinsir to clean its blood-caked horns off; it does so in the most peculiar way, tapping each horn upon hard granite stones until the dark crimson hue flakes off and flutters away on the breeze. I find it odd that it would do so when there's a river not ten minutes away in which it can clean itself much more easily, but decide not to call my Pinsir on its habits.

Lacking a fire pit I retrieve a small trowel I have attached to my belt and begin digging, and ask my Eevee to help me. It does so with gusto, probably knowing that I'll reward it with a treat afterwards. Oh, kind little Eevee! I owe you so much, at least as much as I've allowed you to be hurt. But such things must come later, as we have a long way to go.

So far I've given little thought to my plans, but now I know that I must. Things have changed drastically in the last day and a half. My task is not nearly so cut-and-dry as it once was; now my Pokemon will have to be fantastically strong before I can even contemplate gathering gym badges. And, as things are going so far, I'm a long ways off from having a strong team. Hell, I've only got two Pokemon total thus far. What'll I do for the last four? Murkrow is still a possibility, but I find it doubtful. It's just as reluctant to act in my defence now as it ever has been. Why would it change? Why SHOULD it change?

(Speaking of Murkrow, I'm starting to become a little perturbed by the fact that it never sleeps, eats, or drinks. It's not a normal Pokemon by any stretch of logic.)

Speaking of Murkrow, it's nestled down upon my sleeping bag, observing our efforts, watching, watching, ever watching. Doesn't it have anything better to do than to follow us? I'm tempted to try and shoo it away but know the act will only drain me of energy, as it will just flutter off to a distant perch and resume its quiet surveillance.

So I dig. It doesn't take long, between Eevee and myself. I toss down my trowel and order Eevee to go gather up what twigs it can find while I look for combustible plant matter, but we're both stopped short by a new arrival.

"Hey, you! Pokemon battle! Now!"

Oh, god. It's the guy I stole that Hitmonlee from. Why, of all people, must it be him?

I turn, nod – the last thing I need to do is refuse a Pokemon battle and get in even deeper crap with the league – and order my Pinsir, still tapping away on a rock, into the fray. It shakes its head (difficult to do when one has no neck) and complies. I find its unquestioning loyalty to my word commendable.

The trainer, just as portly as ever – I notice that he's got the beginning of a goatee blossoming on his chin – tosses a Poke ball, and from it is released a female Nidoran. It chitters, plops down on all fours, and bears its buck teeth in a display meant to be threatening. The sight bolsters my confidence; I should be able to win this one with ease, assuming Pinsir does as I say.

"Pinsir, Focus Energy." It carries out the move without fail, forcibly pumping adrenaline into its veins.

"Nidoran, get in close and use Tail Whip! Lower its defences!" Nidoran gallops forward and criss-crosses around my Pinsir, striking it repeatedly with charged lashes. Not wanting my Pinsir to lose its considerable defensive advantage, I order it to sweep the ground with its pincers and keep the Nidoran at bay.

The other trainer calls his Nidoran away immediately. Despite his lack of street savvy he's clearly no slouch when it comes to battling. "Nidoran, Growl. From a distance. Do away with its attack power!" It does so, letting off a string of oddly debilitating noises. I see my Pinsir slacken ever so slightly at the verbal onslaught.

This can't be allowed to continue. I'm so tempted to order Eevee in, but. . . will it get back to the league? Yeah, probably. Bah, who cares. I can beat the bastard with Pinsir alone. "Pinsir, pursue it. Don't let it get away from you."

Pinsir begins to stride towards the Nidoran, clacking its horns together in anticipation. I can only imagine what it has in mind. Just to be safe, I call out a warning to keep the violence to a minimum; the look it shoots me is nothing short of murder, but I imagine it will listen to me.

"Nidoran, keep away from it! Use your speed, get around behind it, and Double Kick it in the back!"

God, but this restraint is grating on my nerves. I'd love to order Pinsir to grab Nidoran in its horns and rip it apart. Maybe I should just do that, anyway. . .

Pinsir is trying to track the Nidoran but it's having a tough time keeping up with the smaller Pokemon's speed. I order it instead to use Harden, which it does, steeling its carapace for Nidoran's attack.

It comes sooner than I expected, as my Pinsir's plodding just can't keep up: the Nidoran launches itself at my Pinsir and delivers a one-two kick combo, knocking Pinsir a little off balance but not injuring it significantly.

"Pinsir, swing around and use Vicegrip on its bloody hide!" But it's too late, as the Nidoran has danced out of the way again and is preparing to assault Pinsir from a different angle. What the hell am I supposed to do?

"Eevee, stand ready to jump in." If worst comes to worst I can smack the guy over the head so badly that he'll forget the whole thing. It helps that he doesn't appear to have seen me the first time we 'met', when I stole his Hitmonlee.

Pinsir is taking more hits, stumbling this way and that, its great bulk more of a hindrance than a help in this battle. The other trainer is looking smug; oh, what I'd do to be able to wipe that cocksure little grin from his face.

"Pinsir, keep using Harden!" It does so, uncertainly.

"Ha, that won't work. Nidoran! Get in there with Tail Whip! Knock it down to size!"

Nidoran moves in for the strike and smacks Pinsir with its stubby little tail, and in seeing it do so I notice how close it has to get. More, it has to slow down considerably for a split second before dashing off again. My Pinsir is still too slow to track it, but maybe. . .

"Pinsir, keep up the Harden!"

"What a waste! Tail Whip again, Nidoran."

I watch Nidoran close in and realise that it uses an easily countered criss-cross pattern when attacking. Just a big X over and over. It's not too original, apparently. This won't be bad at all.

"Harden!"

"Don't you have ANY variety? One more Tail Whip, Nidoran, then get back to Double Kicking it. This is boring."

The Nidoran spins around on its track and comes back at my Pinsir. Pinsir is attempting to turn and face it but I tell it not to. "Keep your eyes to your right, Pinsir, and your arms ready!"

The trainer, at first quizzical, quickly notices my plan and tries to countermand his Nidoran's attack; but it's too late, as the Nidoran's tail has already come into contact with Pinsir's shell. It's passing by Pinsir's right side, and Pinsir's claws are waiting for it. Pinsir gets a hold of it and hefts it into the air, clamping it between its horns.

"Okay, okay, you win! Just don't hurt my Nidoran! I need it healthy!"

I want to do otherwise. I want Pinsir to make it hurt, and hurt a lot. Maybe I'll let Pinsir do so. Then it can gobble up the remains. I stand silent a moment, allowing Pinsir to squeeze the squealing Nidoran into submission.

"Uh. . . I give up, okay? Don't hurt my Nidoran!"

Aspirations of league domination flash before my eyes. Maybe, when I'm champion, I can change battles to suit MY tastes, as opposed to the juvenile manner in which they're conducted now.

But I can't change things if I don't play by the current rules. What a pain in the ass.

"Pinsir, let it go."

Pinsir does as I say, but unhappily. I guess it likes the taste of Poison Pokemon.

"Whew, thanks. I thought you were gonna kill it for a second there! Ha!" He runs over to his Nidoran and enfolds it in his arms, petting its trembling frame. "There, there, you're safe now."

What a disgusting display. The Murkrow apparently agrees, and it squawks irritably until the trainer releases his Pokemon.

The portly trainer dusts a bit of dirt from his jacket and looks at me. "Hey, nice battle. Here's my losses." He tosses a few coins my way, and I catch them. Ahhh, more food money. I need it. "Anyway, by any chance did you just challenge the Pewter gym a while ago?"

"Huh? What's it to you?"

He fidgets. "Well, Brock told me to come out here and look for a guy with an Eevee. That IS an Eevee, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Right! And he said you look exactly like you look! In which case, I have something for you. Here." Reaching into his vest he pulls out a letter. It's sealed with wax; the wax bears the imprinted symbol of the Pokemon league, a stylised Poke Ball. "It looks pretty important."

I snatch it away from him and run my fingers over the wax. "Why'd you come all the way out here for that. . . guy?" I'm tempted to say 'ass' but decide against it.

"It's part of my gym trainer trials. He said my doing this will prove my reliability, which is important in a gym trainer."

"What? You're becoming a gym trainer?"

"Yup! I decided it just the other day, after somebody. . . yeah, never mind. Anyway, I figured it would be good for me to hang around Pewter for a while and learn the ropes of battling before heading out on my own. So I applied to be a gym trainer yesterday, and now Brock has set me out to test my eligability. I can't wait!"

"Uh. . . huh. Well, uh, thanks, I guess."

"No prob! Hope you don't end up hearing something bad. I should probably take off; it's getting a little dark out, and I have a ways to go before I get hope. Nidoran, return." He recalls his Nidoran into its Poke ball and starts off, waving to me as he goes. "Nice meeting you!"

I don't bother to wave back, or even respond. I briefly consider telling him he should set up camp, but discard the notion quickly. If he's too dumb to do so then he deserves to get jumped by some flesh-hungry Pokemon in the night. Turning back to my fire pit – but only after I've fed Pinsir a few snippets of beef for its victory, which it eats with relish – I send Eevee out to find twigs, yet again, and set myself on the sparse tufts of grass to read Brock's letter. The seal gives way easily to my knife.

It reads as such:

'I've gotten in contact with five of the seven gym trainers; four have agreed not to let you into their gyms, and one is still on the fence. I'll let you discover yourself which is which. The last two I'll be calling in the next few days, and I have no reason to think they won't condemn your actions as I have.

I remind you now that your membership in the league hangs on a tenuous thread. If you step out of line again and I find out you'll be out in a moment. We'll confiscate all of your Pokemon and, depending on the severity of your crimes, we'll have you arrested. Remember: no unnecessary brutality when battling. No using two Pokemon in a singles battle. And, for god's sake, NO ATTACKING OTHER TRAINERS!

We'll be keeping our eyes on you. I hope you straighten up soon. Brock'

Peh, as if he needed to tell me all that.

I wander out into the field and start looking for plant life to burn. Doubtless the letter will join the soon-to-be pyre.


	10. Chapter 10

After a restless sleep (there are howling Pokemon in the mountains that keep me from a deep, satisfying rest) I pack up camp and make my way to the base of Mt. Moon. A few hundred feet from the road beneath the mountain is a Pokemon Centre, but I don't bother to go into it. My Pokemon are perfectly rested by now.

I run into a boisterous young female trainer and engage her in battle. She talks tough but my Eevee manages to single-handedly manhandle her entire team (a Bellsprout, a Rattata, and a Zubat) and I take money from her with righteous glee. After all, I'd managed the entire fight without resorting to any 'dirty' tricks (though what others consider 'dirty' I call 'strategic') or overly brutal attacks.

The road through the mountain is long and deep, but surprisingly well lit. Mt. Moon was so named as a result of its abundance of Moon Stones, but for those Moon Stones to plummet into the depths of the mountain holes were necessary. As fate would have it, through natural or unnatural methods, gaping holes had been gouged into the surface of the mountain, allowing ample amounts of light to peep in and illuminate the paths of wary spelunkers.

Which is not to say that Mt. Moon is bereft of dark spots. No, it hides shaded nooks and even shadier secrets that may never come to light. Nor am I interested in shedding light on those secrets. All I care about is getting through in one piece. That will be no mean task for a beginning trainer the likes of me, as Mt. Moon is notoriously difficult to traverse in one go. It's been known to put a stop to the careers of many trainers.

I have two – no, wait, three – reasons to enter its dark confines. The first, I suppose, is to train. It's a long road, filled with lots of wild Pokemon. My Eevee and my Pinsir will have lots of chances to boost their strength.

The second is to get to Cerulean City, far to the east. As I am now my only chance to get to Cerulean is to go through Mt. Moon. Certainly not the most convenient route, but my only other option – taking a ferry from Pallet City – will cost too much. I can thank Champion Red for turning Pallet into a virtual resort town, so I hear.

The third, and to me most important, is to investigate some rumours I've been hearing lately. Not told to my face, mind you, but they circulated around my ears as I walked the streets of Pewter in a rage:

"Weird Pokemon in Mt. Moon, I hear. . ."

"Scaring trainers off, attacking. . ."

"Nothing people around here have seen before. . ."

"Vicious, brutal, and very, very loud. . ."

Sounds like my kind of creature. I'd not really thought about the rumours until I started walking away from Pewter, as my mind had been embroiled in other matters (the Pokemon league problem, mainly). As it turns out, though, the rumours may help me solve my problems.

If this Pokemon can scare off whole teams of trainers then it must be strong. And it must like to fight. I NEED strong, aggressive Pokemon. After all, I'm going to be facing the gym leaders of Kanto on their own terms; I'm gonna need all the muscle I can get.

So here I am, strolling down the dank, smelly pathways of Mt. Moon, my way pointed out to me by well-worn trails and cracks in the ceiling overhead. I know that the holes must end eventually, and my team and I will be plunged into darkness – but in the meantime, I'll enjoy the light I'm afforded.

Our going is relatively easy. Eevee has a grand time picking off the Zubats of the cave, delighting in its ability to catch their tiny bodies in mid-flight and pin them to the ground. Pinsir is not quite so approving (I suppose it doesn't much like the taste of blind, flying rodents) but it still seems to enjoy squeezing the life out of a Zubat or two. Or five.

Actually, we're cutting quite a swathe of destruction, what with all the bodies Pinsir is leaving behind. But that doesn't mean it's particularly enjoying itself. It could just be mean.

The walking is easy. So many legs have come this way that the path is smooth, and nicely rounded; more, the rain from the holes overhead have worn the path down over time. There's a lot of small pools here and there. I have to stop my Eevee from drinking from them, as I have doubts about their sanitary qualities. I KNOW that Eevee can probably handle whatever bacteria (I wonder if there's any form of bacterial Pokemon?) lies within them, but I figure there's no point in taking chances if we're going to be down here for a while.

I decide to call a halt after my Pinsir has hurt itself wrestling a Geodude to the ground. Upon discovering it could not ingest the Pokemon it satisfied itself with beating the Geodude into unconsciousness, and in doing so caused its fingers to erupt in bleeding. It doesn't seem to are much about the wound, but I do. If it can't fight, after all, it's worthless to me, and the Pinsir has shown enough promise thus far to prove that it's in my interests to keep it from becoming worthless. In any case, I settle down on a rock and watch my Eevee stretch itself out for a bit of a nap while Pinsir licks at its wounds. (Pinsirs have the most bizarre tongues you've ever seen, almost to the point of being disturbing.)

Wait. Something's not right.

"Murkrow?"

Murkrow is gone.

Huh. That's weird. I didn't even think about it. I guess I'd just become accustomed to its presence to the point that I ignored its red-eyed stare. And now it's gone.

Oh well. It didn't contribute anything of value anyway. My interest in its fighting capabilities waned a while ago.

I wonder what Pokemon lies down here? What creature it is that's scaring people half to death?

Prophetic and corny as it sounds, as I think this, a great, echoing roar sounds off somewhere deep in the darkness of the tunnels. Eevee leaps into my lap without hesitation, trembling violently: Pinsir, in contrast, only tosses a dumb look into the depths before returning to its task.

Personally, I'm scared. Moreso than I think I've ever been. But will I let it stop me? Hell no. I have better things to do than to give into my fears. So, rather than rest longer, I set my frightened Eevee down and set off again, into the depths. Pinsir follows in our wake.

We go for another five minutes before I notice my Eevee has fallen back behind me. This would not be unusual under normal circumstances. However, Eevee should still be scared, and consequently glued to my heel. So I look back apace and notice that Eevee is lying on the ground, breathing harshly, with Pinsir standing over it as though it's contemplating eating my pet. I dash over and wave the big bug off of its potential meal, which it leaves only grudgingly. I have to be sure to feed that monstrosity soon or it'll eat us all, I swear.

Kneeling I gather Eevee up into my arms. It's breathing harder than I thought, and its eyes are wide. The pupils have dilated to dimensions far larger than usual, yet I don't think it's actually seeing anything.

"Eevee? What's wrong?" I ask, stupidly. What else am I supposed to do?

It convulses a little bit, tracking my voice to where it thinks I might be but instead peering off to a different part of the cave. I notice now, too, that's it's abnormally warm. Its body temperature is rising rapidly, so much so that I can feel it even through Eevee's fur. I grow panicked.

Irregularly panicked, even. Eevee has been acting strange ever since we left Viridian. A strange temperament, odd mood swings, disobeying of the occasional order, use of irregular attacks. . . the growth of fins. . . and now, dear me, I do believe its fur is glowing. Its fur is sweeping upwards into glowing spires. Is it suffering an evolution?

But no. Soon its body temperature begins to fall, its fur resumes its usual brown hue, and its eyes close gently. It sleeps, all panic put aside.

In the last few years I've always tried to perform a similar action with my own emotions, setting aside fear, rage, happiness, and so forth, in the pursuit of perfect battling. The real world does not favour those who undergo emotional outbursts. But there are times when fancy takes hold, and sweeps my blockades away. This is one of those moments. I feel – yes, I feel – the profoundest sense of relief at discovering my Eevee is okay.

It's an annoying sensation, that relief, and I crush it quickly under layers of well-bred cynicism. But I know it's still there, peeping out from beneath my pragmatism, waiting for future chances to manifest itself and bug the hell out of me.

Another roar fills the cavern as we walk on, I with my Eevee in my arms, but it's not disturbed by the sound. It can't hear anything right now, aside from whatever it is young Eevee's dream about.


	11. Chapter 11

The path is getting darker and darker. Thick layers of rock and soil overhead are growing ever thicker, and the holes through which sunlight can filter are becoming smaller and less frequent. I'm tempted to light the first of my flares, but decide against it – I can still see reasonably well. Besides, I've got Eevee wrapped up in my arms, and I don't really want to set its fur on fire.

The Zubats are growing more numerous the deeper we get, and my Pinsir grumpier. It wants decent food and it wants it now. I contemplate going on a search for a Geodude nest (apparently they're only really edible when they're still in the shell) but realise leaving the trail may send us all off on a journey we're apt not to return from. The recesses of Mt. Moon are not to be taken lightly.

After an hour of travelling I come across a little group of trainers huddling around a fire. I don't blame them, as the cavern has become chill in the absence of sunlight. Upon noticing my presence they wave me over and make room at the edge of their fire (not in a pit, as I'm used to, but contained by a ring of rocks). I settle down beside one of the two girls in attendance (a cute one, this) and rub my hands in front of the fire.

They're all frightened, I can tell, but each one is trying to allay their fear with talk of – what else – Pokemon. They've just started discussing their favourite Pokemon.

An older man (he looks to be thirty-five or so) goes first. "For me it's definitely Bellsprout. My mom had one a long while ago, and she used it to keep pests out of her garden. I got used to having one around."

"Ahhh, Grass Pokemon are wussy. Give me Fire any time," a teen with dyed red hair responds. He's trying to resemble that which he's a proponent of, I'm sure, and (in my opinion) is failing in the attempt. The dye job looks sloppy. "My Magmar could fry your Bellsprout lickety-split. It's my fav, by the by."

The first man looks a bit miffed but doesn't respond.

The second girl goes next. "I've always wanted a Grumpig. They look so cute!" Her comment elicits confusion, as none of us have ever heard of a Grumpig before; she has to pull out a picture of one for us all to see. I personally think it an ugly beast. "What kind is it?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. Who cares? So cute! Look at that tail! And its big, floppy black ears! Oink oink oink!" Most of the trainers laugh at her mimicry, but I can't be bothered.

Next up is a grim old coot with thick black glasses and a bushy moustache. "I. . . have been walking these lands for a long time. . . and I've seen. . . many Pokemon. . . but the best. . . is the Weedle."

He then launches into a halting tirade about how great Weedles are. We just kinda ignore him. Why the hell would somebody love a Weedle? They're useless.

The cutie on my right comes up. "Well, if I ever got a chance, I'd get myself a Lickitung."

"Ewww, a Lickitung? Gross. They're so weird looking."

"Maybe, but think of the things I could make it do. . .!"

We all – yes, myself included - laugh at the obvious sexual innuendo. I can appreciate clever crudity. I can also appreciate those hips she's got, even if she is, what, three years older than me? Four? Doesn't matter.

She looks to me. "How 'bout you, stranger?"

I stroke my slumbering Eevee. I'm a little glad it can't hear my answer. "I'm not sure. I don't think I have a favourite yet."

"Awww, that's so boring!" the redhead cuts in. "What about your Pinsir? It looks pretty badass."

I turn to look at Pinsir. It's busy cleaning its horns off. "Nah, I don't think so. I don't tend to appreciate Pokemon that'll make me their next meal if they get sufficiently hungry."

The comment draws apprehensive silence. I get the feeling they want me to leave, or at least a few of them do. The thirty-something breaks it by saying "You've got quite the vocabulary for your age."

I shrug. "I read a lot." There's no point in telling them that my dad had me educated in the finest schools from age three onwards. "Don't worry about Pinsir. I'll feed it enough that it won't touch the rest of you. It hasn't shown any inclination to eat me yet, really, aside from a few thre-"

But now the roar cuts in, and my voice is drowned out. There is a collective gasp (but not from the old man, who's still mumbling away to himself about Weedles) and everybody finds a warm body to grab. I take the opportunity to lock arms with my flavour of the day (and, in the process, brush up against her upper assets in the process - what can I say, puberty pushes me to do it). We all look into the darkness as though expecting to see something. But there's nothing, and we hear no more, save the echoes of the roar and the steady drip of a leak somewhere off in the distance.

The group decides to stick together. Despite my wish to train on my lonesome, I just can't pull myself away from the girl. She's a little too, ah, irresistible to the touch. We pack up (which takes an annoying amount of time) and start off, deeper into the cave.

There are lots and lots of dead Zubats. From the looks of it they've been ripped apart by teeth sharper than anything even my Pinsir has on it. We would avoid the trail of their corpses but can't because it's strung along the path we have to follow to get out.

Eventually, too scared to go on, the redhead chickens out and heads back. I'm not at all disappointed by his departure. By now it's around seven-thirty at night, and we've run out of gaps in the ceiling of the mountain, so I pull out the first of my flares and pop the top. It hisses to life and sheds light on a limited area, but we all agree that it's better than nothing. I'm favoured with a quick peck to the cheek by my girl (perhaps it's a little early to be calling her MY girl, since I haven't even asked her name yet), though she refuses to hold hands.

The roars start to come more frequently, and with greater amplitude. I can feel the resolve of the group wavering. No one will leave now, however, as they fear traversing the dark on their own. I don't personally care whether they go or stay, so long as I get a look at whatever it is that's roaring in the dark.

We come to a juncture with overhanging stalactites. Both paths look equally well trodden. It is here we decide to rest, and we set up camp a ways away from the stalactites (I don't personally feel like getting pinned under a pointy column of rock while I'm snoozing). To my great annoyance my girl lays her sleeping bag alongside that of Grumpig Gal, but I don't let my disappointment become known.

Bah. She's ugly anyway. I have better things to do than woo some dumb strumpet.

Attempting valiantly to ignore the roars (I know I'm using that word too often, but hell, I can't think of a better one for this situation) we settle down and try to sleep.

After a few hours, however, it becomes obvious that I'm not going to get any downtime. I roll up my sleeping bag and lift Eevee into my arms; it wakes at my touch, licks my hand, and jumps down, quite refreshed. I'm glad to see as much. It was a pain to carry.

We head off down the left path (that which I've decided the roars are coming from). I know that at least one of the trainers is watching Pinsir, Eevee, and I leave, but nobody raises a complaint.

I don't care if they watch. Hell, they can follow, if they want, so long as none of them entertain the notion that they're going to catch this Pokemon. It's MINE.

I'm practically trembling in anticipation. So's my Eevee.

We round corners and twist through a maze with no discernible end. The walls are getting closer, narrower; remnants of claustrophobic fear burble to the surface of my brain but I ignore them. They filter into my arms, my legs, my very skin, and still I press on. I probably look like I'm having a seizure. My teeth are chattering. The flare I hold in my hand casts its light in a frenetic manner, swinging back and forth across the walls of the tunnel as I try to keep my fingers still.

It's not working. I'M not working.

But we press on, and the roars come from just around the bend, and I know: I know that we've arrived, after a lifetime of hours in the darkness, and after only a day under the mountain.

I turn the last bend, running my free hand across the rough wall of the cavern as I go. Maybe I think that it'll help ground me in the unreality of these moments, by touching something concrete: but no, no, no. Nothing prepares me for the lunacy I see next.

The Pokemon is enormous. Bigger even than an. . . an anything; I'm not sure what. It has great, hunched shoulders, and a shaggy mane, smeared with blood; a purple shell coating its face; enormous black tusks; a huge, toothy smile; and tentacles, and wings, and claws larger than possible in life, and. . . and. . . and. . .

It roars, and I collapse. Eevee assaults it in my defence. Pinsir, I don't know what Pinsir's doing, I don't care, I'm going to die anyway. . . god, I think I just pissed myself. . .

My eyes glaze over, or try to; but then I notice that its head is extending beyond the limit of the roof of the cave, into the very bedrock.

What the hell?

--

"Son, I want-"

--

Eevee, evidently, has knocked the Pokemon off balance. By all rights doing so should be impossible, considering the Pokemon's size. But Eevee does so anyway, and I see the head of the Pokemon fall to the side and disappear into the bedrock, and then there is a sizzle: and then the Pokemon shrinks within an instant. In its place is a much smaller (but still tusked and shelled and smiling), striped red-and-black-and-white Growlithe. The blood on its mane (which I realise is just the fur on its chest) is its own, oozing from a dozen small wounds. It has a mask on its face.

Perhaps saying it's on its face is an understatement. The mask, a grotesque piece of work, has been bolted to the Growlithe's skull in no less than seven places. A little box on the top of it is shooting off sparks like miniature firecrackers, cracked as it is. Eevee knocked the Growlithe's head off of a rock when it pushed the dog over, from the looks of it.

There's no way in hell I'll be able to get the mask off of the Growlithe, but why bother? It looks kinda cool. I use a Poke Ball on it immediately (after I've gotten up, that is, and noticed all that I've detailed)and pat Eevee on the head.

My guess is that the mask is some kind of holographic projector. Chances are good it worked to amplify the Roar of the Growlithe, too. But why is it on this Pokemon? Who would do such a brutish thing? Sounds like a plot's afoot!

And I don't give a crap about it, whatever it is! Such things aren't my business. All I care about is the fact that I have a new Pokemon, thanks to my Eevee. I feed it a few of the scraps of food that I have left and continue on down the tunnels, noting with embarrassment that I have, indeed, pissed my pants.


	12. Chapter 12

The rest of the trip is uneventful. Pinsir continues its slaughter of the local Zubat population; Eevee joins it, albeit on a smaller and less bloodthirsty scale; and as my new Growlithe sleeps in its Poke Ball, I wonder just how strong it'll be once I get it healed. Will it obey me? Or will I have to defend myself upon releasing it?

After another hour we emerge from the cave into the wee hours of the morning. Waiting for us, perched on a signpost that reads 'Cerulean City – 10 Kilometres East', is the Murkrow. Its crimson eyes look no less attentive than they were when we parted ways, nor does it seem surprised at my arrival.

What a freaky bird. I guess it doesn't like tunnels.

Fatigued from my lack of sleep I decide to spread out my bedroll for a quick nap. Pinsir, annoyed at my decision, wanders off to find some grub for itself. I have no doubt in my mind that it will find something, as we've emerged into a verdant country - sprawling grasslands replete with still snoozing Pokemon surround us on all sides, save to the north where the mountain range predominates.

Snuggling into my sleeping bag I drop into a deep, dreamless sleep. Eevee surprisingly opts to do otherwise, and the last thing I see it do is nudge at my newly tenanted Poke Ball with its nose.

Time passes, and so do regrets; but regrets have no place in the waking world, and so I cast them aside as I return to the light.

And light it is. It must be noon. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I check my watch; sure enough it's 12:32. I wonder what roused me, as I thought I would sleep longer.

It was a muzzle. A large, white muzzle. A large, white muzzle covered on the top by a spooky smile. From it erupts a mucous-laden tongue, and I find my cheek dripping in saliva.

"Ew, what the hell! Back off!"

Eevee has released the Growlithe, apparently, in its fiddling. The dog is sitting before me, panting, its coat still smeared with blood. I can tell it's feeling much better than before. That nap probably did it wonders.

I shoo the Growlithe away and clamber out of my sleeping bag. My stomach growls, so I pull open my bag and make a few futile snatches for food, but nothing yields itself up to my fingers. Damn, all out. I'll have to starve until I get to Cerulean, I guess. A few squirts of water serve to abate my hunger, but only a tiny bit.

As I'm chugging away on my water I happen to notice that furry beasts have covered my ankles. On the left, my Eevee is pawing my pants, seeking food; on the right, the larger Growlithe prods me with the tip of its mask (one of the tusks, in fact) and whines. I'm guessing it wants me to take the mask off.

Ignoring Eevee for the moment I kneel and inspect the Growlithe again. The mask has been applied rather crudely; the holes in Growlithe's skull, though superficial only, will cause it a great deal of trouble should the mask ever be removed. Each of its seven anchor points is held by a bolt so thick that there's no way I can get it off the Growlithe. Previously, I'd thought the mask a nifty addition to a type of Pokemon I'd usually yawn over; however I now realise that the mask may prove a liability. In order to evolve into Arcanine Growlithe's head must expand significantly, and doing so with a mask attached could kill the Growlithe.

What use is training the beast if it's just going to die when I try and evolve it? I sigh, rise, and rub the back of my head.

"So much for that. Go on, get lost. I can't do anything with you. Too much of a risk with too little gain."

I know it understands me, but the Growlithe refuses to budge. Its tail wags, half-heartedly. I can tell it doesn't have much energy in it.

"Off. Beat it. I'm not taking the chance that you'll get killed. Bug somebody else."

Its staunch opposition to leaving remains in effect, irking me greatly.

"Go on! Piss off! I don't want you! You're useless!"

Nothing. It doesn't look happy, really, but it won't leave, either.

"Ugh. Fine, we'll do it the hard way. Pinsir! Kill this thing!"

Pinsir, sitting a ways away with a pair of eggs in its hands (it's slurping away on a third like some kind of twisted connoisseur), rises to comply. Growlithe immediately takes a defensive stance but shows no inclination to attack me, who issued the order in the first place. I can see small gouts of flame floating out from between its jaws.

Erm. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. Growlithe will fry Pinsir. "Forget it, Pinsir. Sit down and eat your eggs."

Pinsir does so, slumping down on the ground again. What a stupid Pokemon. Loyal, but dumb as a brick.

The Growlithe sets itself on its haunches, but has little time for rest as I kick it harshly in the side. "Go on, go! Beat it! You're not wanted!"

Eevee whines. I ignore it.

The Growlithe staggers a bit, but sets itself down again before me, adamant. I can see its eyes from behind the mask, and I know, I know, that it's an intelligent creature. 'Kill me if you want,' those eyes say, 'but I'm not leaving; that's not what we do. You helped me, so I'll help you.'

I sneer. My revulsion at its presence becomes mixed with respect, but I don't let any admiration show. Somewhere, deep inside me, a little boy is crying out for me to give it a hug and apologise; but I crush that boy beneath the heel of my shoe.

"You have 'til the count of five. Then I'll start kicking, and I won't stop until your breath runs out."

"One."

It blinks and pants for a moment.

"Two." I grit my teeth.

It does nothing.

"Three." I draw my foot back, as if in demonstration.

It does not appear to be impressed.

"Four."

--

"- to introduce –"

--

Beneath that hideous mask is the heart of a virtuous Pokemon. Am I really about to snuff that heart out?

"Five."

It closes its eyes, and so do I.

--

"Hi there, little fella! You're an Eevee, aren't you?"

--

"DAAAH! DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT, YOU DUMB DOG!" I plant my foot into the grass and storm off. Growlithe follows after me, its choice clearly made.

If there's a God somewhere out there, He'd better pay attention to that little act of charity. Sparing the Growlithe should fulfil my quota of goodness for the year.

"If you die later, I swear to all that's holy. . ."

The Growlithe woofs defensively, as though I've offended it. Yes, yes, I'm just so sure you'll be useful. Eevee seems satisfied, too, as it's yipping and bounding about. Apparently we're ALL getting soft nowadays.

My mood turns, and I turn with it. "Look. If you're going to tag along then you damn well better pull your weight. Not like that bloody Murkrow over there."

The Murkrow caws at the thumb I've pointed in its direction.

Growlithe nods. Its tail starts to wag again.

"Right, get over here. I need to inspect you again."

It saunters over obediently, stretching itself and puffing its chest up for dramatic effect. I roll my eyes. What an egotist. First I inspect what I presume to be the projector to the hologram. It's a small purple box, situated around the crown of Growlithe's skull; or at least it would have been had it not been hopelessly smashed. I haven't a clue how I would fix it.

"It was a stupid idea anyway," I mutter to myself.

I run my hands across its fur and probe its wounds, allowing my fingers to linger over each one. I'm impressed that it can take my inspection without flinching, as I'm not gentle.

"Hmm. . . there's a lot of dirt in these cuts. Were you trying to get that mask off and hurt yourself in the process?"

It nods an affirmative. I'm not surprised. The mask has a lot of dents on it. The Growlithe was probably tossing itself around in a frenzy trying to get the damned off. "And you attacked people?"

It nods again, though sheepishly. I personally approve of its conduct. "Well, fine. That's fine. You'll do for now, I guess. But listen here: if you show yourself to be a liability, I'm cutting you off. Or trading you. Understand?"

It barks and wags. I can tell it wants to prove itself. "Yeah, yeah. Well, I'm not going to waste my time on you while you're wounded. Go on, back in the Poke Ball." I retrieve the emptied device and hit the button, sucking Growlithe back into its computerised guts without complaint. I imagine it's relieved at being given more time to rest.

I exchange glances with Eevee. It's looking rather smug. 

"Oh, cut that out. You didn't do a damned thing. You just want another dog to pee on things with."

Eevee juts it chin up to the sky.

"Oh, silly me, I'd forgotten you're above such filthy habits as urination."

Wait, pee?

Oh crap, I forgot to change my pants. I probably smell like dried piss.

This day sucks so far.


	13. Chapter 13

So. I need to make my Pokemon as strong as possible, do I?

I suppose that's do-able; although, I'd kinda hoped to have gym badges to rein them in at higher levels of power. After all, they're difficult to control the stronger they get, or so I'm told. It might be annoying - restraining them to my will, that is – if I don't have the proper qualifications.

As such, I'd be best off to beat a gym leader, and fast. But which? They've all got strong teams of their own, I'm sure. But there must be one amongst them that's weak. . . a newcomer to the game, perhaps. . . ah, who knows. I'm not sure yet.

I'm certainly not going to find a newcomer in Cerulean City. As I approach the glittering spires and gushing fountains of its streets I reflect upon what I know of Cerulean's gym leader: Misty, the foremost authority on Water Pokemon in this region of the world. There isn't a chance in hell that my Eevee, Pinsir, and Growlithe combination will manage to beat her team of seasoned vets. She wasn't elected deputy mayor of Cerulean for nothing.

I twirl Growlithe's Poke Ball on my index finger, hoping to annoy it (though I doubt it can feel anything inside its enclosure). If it insists on being my Pokemon then I won't give it an easy time of things. I mean, sure, I'd WANTED to catch it at first, but after realizing that the mask will probably kill it off. . . bah. It better not die, that's all I have to say.

The first thing I do upon reaching Cerulean is look for a restaurant. I've earned enough money from battling that I can afford a decent meal for once. A hamburger or two is all I ask, maybe with some fries on the side; or a steak. . . ah, how long has it been since I've sunk my teeth into a big, fat, juicy steak. . .? And a salad. Yes, a salad, Caesar and no less, with ranch dressing, a. . . I guess I'm getting off track here. Needless to say I FIND a restaurant, pretty quickly, and ring up an order of food for myself and my Pokemon (but not Growlithe, nor even Murkrow; I'm punishing one and ignoring the other, not that either cares). Eevee, Pinsir, and myself plop down on one of the many park benches and gobble our food up.

As we eat I realize that I've only put Pinsir in its Poke Ball once or twice. In fact its big, loping form has become a familiar sight to me. Not that I take any pleasure in looking at it, because outside of battle it's really quite an unpleasant beast; but I can't deny that it's slowly joining my regular picture of life, much like Eevee did a long time ago.

Speaking of Eevee, it's. . . "Hey! What the hell!"

Eevee has released Growlithe, again, and the two of them are sharing Eevee's plate of onion rings. I snatch the plate away from them, eliciting a pair of annoyed whines. "You don't eat until I tell you to, got it? Back in the Ball!"

Growlithe's ears lower sadly as I hit the button on its Poke Ball and put it back in stasis. Its appearance causes shock amongst the people of the square we're in, bloody and masked as it is; but I ignore them, and they all leave me alone.

I turn on Eevee. "Don't do that again, or I'll swat you one. Got it?"

Eevee gets it, but doesn't agree. Since when was it so rebellious? Little bastard. I'm accustomed to it acting strangely, but its conduct towards the Growlithe thus far has been bizarre.

Is it really looking for a friend?

"You've got me. That's should be enough for you." I hand it back its onion rings and continue with my meal. It refuses to eat any more, however, and eventually the onion rings fall victim to Pinsir's voracious appetite.

After disposing of my meal (but not the trash; it continues to sit, unattended, on the bench) I head for the nearest Pokemon Center. It's time to have the Growlithe checked out by a professional.

The inspection takes the better part of an hour. I hand over Eevee and Pinsir, as well, for the hell of it; may as well get the lot done. In the meantime I busy myself with shopping, restocking our supplies and fairly draining my cash reserve. I'll have to find some saps to battle outside the city and build it back up. People watch me as I peruse the aisles, for some reason, and I have to toss them fearsome glares before they'll leave me be. Am I really so interesting? Damn nuisances.

The prognosis I receive after returning to the Pokemon Center is as such:

"Your Pinsir is in fine shape. We seldom see specimens as physically fit as it pass through our doors. You should be proud."

"Thanks."

"Your Growlithe is fine, now. We've subjected it to a number of treatments to revitalize it; however, we can't remove the mask. We've determined that the mask will not harm your Growlithe, and that the holes bored in its skull pose no threat of infection. We haven't detected any brain damage, either, so it will be perfectly capable of fighting. We would like to hand it over to the police, if we could, so as to find out who did this to it in the first place. . ."

"That depends. Will the mask stop it from evolving?"

"No, I shouldn't think so. Evolutions are very forceful things, especially amongst Pokemon like Growlithes. The mask should be pushed off during the evolutionary process. The resulting Arcanine will probably have large scars on its head, though."

"I can live with that." What do I care about its looks? If it can fight, it can fight.

"Then, can we. . .?"

"No. I need it."

"As you wish, I guess. We really could-"

"I said no."

"But-"

"No! Just tell me about my damned Eevee, give all my Pokemon back, and let me be on my way."

"Erm, yes, sir. Anyway. . . as far as I can tell, your Eevee is okay. However, it seems a bit genetically unstable."

"Well, duh. It's an Eevee. They're supposed to be."

"I know, but. . . well, our machines-"

"Are taking longer than usual to heal it. Yeah, I know. I didn't even ASK you to heal it."

"I figured it wouldn't hurt to run it through the machine once-"

"Just do your job, like you're supposed to, and do as I ask." These bloody nurses have no sense for public relations, obviously, and it's grating on my nerves. "Is that all?"

"Well, no." Clearly I've rattled her. She's probably not used to dealing with pricks the likes of me. "It's. . . more unstable than your average Eevee. Its cells are in a constant state of flux. Has it ever-"

"You know what? I don't care. I have things to do. Give me my Pokemon."

"But-"

"JUST DO IT!"

I can see a few orderlies sneaking out from behind the counter, wondering what the fuss is. The nurse waves them back. "Y. . . yes, sir. I'm concerned about your Pokemon, that's all."

"Concern is my job. Healing is yours." I take back my Poke Balls and my Eevee and leave, the eyes of the staff and patrons on me. Yeesh, people these days so nosey. Yet I'm not even afforded peaceful silence in my departure, as the nurse calls out:

"Oh, but sir, wait! Your-"

"SHUT UP!"

GOD am I annoyed. I feel like hurting something.

As I walk out of the doors I brush the Murkrow from my shoulder (when did it latch on there, exactly?) and let my Pokemon out of their Balls. Or, rather, I try to release Pinsir, but it refuses to come out. Lazy bug.

Growlithe, on the other hand, emerges with glee from its prison and stretches its legs. The blood has been cleaned from its fur, and I can see a spark of exuberance in its eyes. It begins to bound about my feet, followed closely by Eevee, both barking in merriment.

"Ack, cut that out, you're going to bloody well knock me over!"

They halt immediately and seat themselves on the concrete, looking at me innocently. I hear Growlithe's stomach rumble.

"Look, you," I say, addressing the Growlithe with a pointed finger, "you may just have a use after all. They say you'll live if I evolve you. That mask'll fall right off."

The grin on the mask is mirrored by a display of sharpened teeth. It must be delighted by the news.

"BUT! That doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you. You got that? If you're useless in a fight then I'll dump you immediately. If you disobey me, I'll dump you. If you so much as SNEEZE wrong, you're toast. Understand, rover?"

It doesn't respond by nodding, as I'd expected it to. Instead it plods over to me and raises a paw, woofing once.

"What? You wanna shake on it? I'm not going to demean myself so much as that."

It shakes its head in a negative, waving its foot around madly and whining.

"What? What? You want food? Eevee, what the hell is it talking about? I don't speak animal, for christ's sake."

It nuzzles me. Hard. In the crotch.

"ACK, ARE YOU SOME KINDA PERVERT? GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! I'M NOT INTO THAT CRAP-"

People are staring. But not at me. Or, more specifically, not at my face.

Wait, my crotch. . .

Oh, son of a. . .

Finally, FINALLY, I realize it's time to go shopping for a new pair of pants. My current trousers are a little soiled. Dropping my tirade I skitter away from the entrance of the Pokemon Center, face blazing, followed closely by three annoying Pokemon.

At least now I know Growlithe's looking out for my best interests.

Bah. The day just gets worse, and worse. . .


	14. Chapter 14

After realising that I haven't the cash to buy a new pair of pants, I decide to simply steal some. The task is easily accomplished: as my Pinsir wreaks a bit of havoc chasing around the shop owner's Pidgey I slip on some jeans, leaving the old ones in their place. Not one to be caught, I manage to rip the security tag off, as well. It leaves me bereft of a corduroy strap on one side, but, big deal. That just makes them look 'used'. I collect my Pinsir – after apologising profusely – and skip out of the store, feeling fresher.

The next order of business is to secure a meeting with Misty. It won't be easy, I'm sure: so far as I can tell she's a step ahead of the usual gym leader in terms of popularity, making her very, very busy. It doesn't help that I've been placed on a trainer blacklist. But I may as well try, and the first place to do so is at Misty's gym. After stopping to ask for directions I lead my motley band to Cerulean gym, home of Kanto's most powerful Water Pokemon.

It doesn't take long to find the place. It's not humble by any stretch of the imagination. The building is entirely open-air, with a huge, mechanised clamshell dome for covering up on foul weather days. Today isn't one of those days, clearly, and as I approach I take note of over a dozen fountains, ranging from small to large, and several battling platforms situated on top of pillars. Statues and busts of any number of figures adorn the place. It's very Romanesque. Misty's platform is at the head of the gym, of course, and it takes grandeur to new heights: virtually every inch of the moulding on it is covered in gold plates. A statue of Kyogre, the legendary Water God, arches over an opulent couch upon which I'm guessing Misty seats herself.

But not today. The whole gym looks vacant as I approach it, save for a single security guard at its entrance. I go up and ask why Misty's not in.

"Preparing for a parade," she answers. "After that she has business elsewhere. The gym won't be open for another two weeks."

"Any chance of me arranging a meeting with her?"

The guard just laughs at me.

Well, so much for that. I'll have to pass on Misty for the moment. It wouldn't hurt to see her in the parade, however, as she might have her Pokemon on display.

"When's the parade? Is it in Cerulean?"

"Of course it is. Tomorrow, 12 o'clock sharp. Champion Red'll be there, too, or so I hear."

I don't much care about battling him, since he won't get me any closer to my goals. I wander away from the guard without bothering to thank her.

I suppose that means I'll have to wait until tomorrow. I wander the city for a few hours, taking in the sights until I get bored, eventually deciding it's time to continue training. Releasing all of my Pokemon I head into the wilds outside of Cerulean and let them loose on the local population of wild Pokemon.

They do well for themselves. Pinsir is fiendishly brutal, ripping its foes to pieces instead of just knocking them out. Eevee takes a calmer approach, preferring to attack vital points on its foes in an attempt to make quick defeats. And Growlithe. . .

Well, Growlithe kinda surprises me. It's quite strong. It doesn't apply any more force to battling than required; once its enemies go down, Growlithe leaves them alone. It works with a kind of finesse that I admire, too, using speed and precision more than strength. I'd expected it to overwhelm and pulverise its opponents like Pinsir. Its sense of mercy might be a problem in the future, though.

As the day wanes and night begins to fall I build a camp. Eevee and Growlithe aid me in my endeavours, collecting enough stray twigs and branches to erect a large bonfire. Growlithe in particular is rigorous in its task (self-appointed, no less, or at least delegated by Eevee), outdoing Eevee two to one in the amount of fuel collected. Eevee doesn't seem to mind, and I suspect it may even use Growlithe's thorough nature as an excuse to do less work itself. Pinsir does nothing to help any of us, preferring instead to slowly devour a clutch of eggs I'd found for it earlier. What Pokemon they'd belonged to, I'm not sure; however, when we hear the agonised sorrow-cry of some far off Pokemon late in the evening, I have no difficulty attributing it to the mother of the eggs.

We all sit around the fire, Pinsir dozing, Murkrow staring, Eevee and Growlithe playing, and myself reading. I note from the corner of my eye that Eevee is surprisingly rough in its play, and it tends to launch itself at Growlithe more harshly than Growlithe would probably prefer. The latter, however, takes it all in stride (which is easier to do when your playmate is two thirds less weighty than yourself) and fights back with measured gentility. Eventually I tell them to knock it off, and Growlithe immediately lies down; but it takes a few more calls for Eevee to give up the battle, and I'm forced to fake a kick in its direction before it settles down on its bed for the night.

The firelight makes for a poor source of illumination and I eventually toss my book aside (it's boring anyway: some nonsense about Leonardo da Vinci), preferring instead to watch the sky. It's a clear night, and perfect for stargazing: a normally blank slate has been illuminated by a panoply of lightened pinpricks, each one a part of a cosmic roadmap that I'll never be able to follow.

But that's okay. I only care about the here, the now. Impossibilities aren't worth pursuing.

--

"- the latest –"

and

"What's the matter?"

--

I blink. My memories are converging in a scattered fashion that I don't altogether care for. I shove them off to the side before a torrent of forgotten information can present itself to my brain and confuse the hell out of me.

The stars are kinda pretty, though.

I look down from them and over to my Eevee. Growlithe has shimmied over to its side, and is sleeping with its nose on Eevee's bed. The edges of its mask have been carefully positioned so they won't poke Eevee as it sleeps.

Ugh. Ugh!

"What the hell!" I want to yell, but I know it won't go over well with Pinsir.

"What the HELL!" I want to scream. "Why are you so CHUMMY with it?"

I'm filled with the greatest sense of disgust. I want Growlithe to go away, right now; more, I want to be the reason it goes away, I want to push it and kick it and tear at it until it dies. And after the disgust abates, I'm left only with loneliness, loneliness I can't beat back with harsh words and lashings. Who would I inflict them upon? Who would listen? Only the Murkrow is watching, and I know it won't react to anything I say to it.

I look at it and whisper, "I hate you. Both of you."

It doesn't reply, and I'm forced to sleep through bitter chills, wondering why I care so much.

But only after I've put Growlithe back in its Poke Ball.

The next day I wake up with the worst headache. Eevee has released Growlithe AGAIN, and the two are looking at me disdainfully.

"What? It's not a goddamn crime to put a Pokemon in a Poke Ball. That's what they're for."

Eevee snorts and trots off. Growlithe, watching the smaller Pokemon retreat from beneath its mask, stays put in front of me. I rub my head in frustration and pull out some breakfast, wilfully neglecting to feed Growlithe. Eventually it leaves, no doubt to search out a meal of its own.

As I devour a can of ravioli I spy, off in the distance, a considerable cavalcade of cars approaching Cerulean. It includes no less than four white limousines, not to mention one considerably larger stretch limo bearing the standard of the Pokemon league on both edges of its dashboard. That's what it looks like from here, anyway.

I guess Red and his party has arrived. I shovel down another mouthful of pasta and meat as I watch, trying to ignore the droning noise of the motors and their effect on my headache. Eventually, tired of sitting, I discard the emptied can and go looking for Eevee.

Fifteen minutes later I find it, though not as I would've expected to. Clearing a small bundle of trees I see Eevee at the feet of a bent figure, being fed a few tidbits of Pokemon feed (or I presume that's what it is, anyway – I'm the only person I've ever seen who feeds his Pokemon food made for humans). Calling out in protest I run over, demanding that the figure stop immediately "or I'll kick the crap out of you!"

It – he – does, and rises from his stoop. It's Old Man Weedle, from Mt. Moon, and sure enough a Weedle is looped around the back of his neck.

"Well. . . hello there, again. . . you have a nice little Eevee, here. . . it is yours, right. . .?"

I'm instantly annoyed by his halting speech. "Yes, yes, and I can feed it myself, thanks. Eevee! Get the hell over here!"

Eevee spurns me and paws at the man's ankles, looking for more food.

"EEVEE! HERE, NOW!"

"Now, now. . . I'm not doing anything. . . wrong. . ." I wish I could see behind his tinted glasses, as his eyes would probably reveal the truth of that statement; but I can't, so I naturally assume the worst. "It was. . . hungry. . ."

"I don't CARE if it was. That's my job, feeding it, and NOT some old coot's. EEVEE, HERE, NOW."

Glaring, it wanders away from Old Man Weedle, but refuses to take up residence by my feet. Have I lost its respect? Have these last few years of care on my part meant nothing to it? I hide my fear beneath these angry questions and watch as it disappears into the trees. My hands are shaking and my brain is throbbing.

"Well. . . I can tell when I'm not. . . wanted. . . so I'll just go. . . but first, young man. . . I wanted to-"

"I don't have time to put up with your rambling. Adios." I turn to leave.

"Wait! Please. . . wait! I'm sorry I. . . can't talk. . . very fast. . ." He starts to sputter and cough from his exertions, the effort taking a strain on his voice. "I just. . . please. . . just wanted to know. . . if you. . . planned. . ."

"SPIT IT OUT."

"To see the parade today." He spits the last of his sentence out as quickly as he can and gasps for air. I'm tempted to laugh at his debilitation but find myself too pissed to be even sadistically merry.

"Yeah, I am. What of it?"

Doubling over, coughing, he just shakes his head and wanders off with all the grace of a stoned Rhyhorn.

"That's IT?" I call out. "YOU WASTED MY TIME FOR THAT? USELESS!"

This day isn't looking any better than the last. I head back to camp, stomping any vegetation that dares to get in my way.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: I haven't had a chance to edit this yet, so I'm POSITIVE there are problems with it. It's late, I'm tired, and I wanna go to bed, but I also want to post this tonight since I missed out on putting a chapter up yesterday. Damned school. Apologies in advance, and I will proof read it tomorrow when I have some time (damned work).

Enjoy.

--

Come 12 o'clock (sharp) the parade begins, and I find myself a little sickened at the display.

As is fitting of such parades, it takes place on Aqualine Avenue, the 'Main Street' of Cerulean. It's a road that was practically made for lengthy processions: its width is that of a major highway, minus any concrete islands or barriers. Its streetlights are abnormally high, allowing easy passage for the larger floats – and there are a lot of them. Divergent streets have been blocked off with heavy police barricades, and so too with the sidewalks. There isn't a chance that anybody will slip by to disturb the revellers. This is a weighty task for Cerulean's police force, as I estimate the number of people crowding the streets to number well into the tens of thousands.

And the procession itself! Every float is tinted in shades of blue to the point that it becomes nauseating. There are flatbed trucks covered in mermaids, frolicking in a false turf; huge, foam-formed Pokemon inhabited by sweating humans, all of which are of the Water variety; and marching bands of Squirtles playing flutes and singing out some booming melody in their strange language. Add into this the constant presence of bodyguards flitting from float to float, ensuring that all is secure, and you make for a strange scene indeed. And it's all drifting by with the calm of a bloody tempest.

It takes a long, long time for Misty to reach my position (I would move down the floats and look for her specifically, but the streets are just too damned busy), and in the meantime I keep my eye on the bodyguards.

They're clearly not Misty's men. Something tells me she would insist on aquamarine suits and dewdrop-shaped sunglasses. No, these are professionals straight from the Pokemon league, with cleanly-pressed bodysuits and tinted spectacles. They move fluidly, expertly; I'm sure nobody else really notices their presence.

Well. Save for one of them. He looks like the odd man out. In his mid twenties, no suit, wearing a grimy looking baseball cap and a black trench coat with the sleeves ripped off. His hair's pretty off, too, with gigantic spikes in the front and long strands of pointy chestnut curls flowing down his back. Yet he sweeps the floats just as easily as the rest, and I wonder if he isn't Red's personal bodyguard. His unique appearance certainly picks him out of a crowd, and I imagine Red himself chose the garb (judging by pictures I've seen of Red, it's pretty close to what he wore when he won the championship). But why would he be way up here, if Red is probably back with Misty?

No matter. I continue to watch him, lifting my Eevee up for a better look. It accepts the boost with a snort; it must still be mad at me. Bah. Growlithe sits at my feet, clearly desiring the same preferential treatment but not pressing for it; I grant it some form of attention by stowing it in its Poke Ball.

Growing bored, I ask somebody how long it'll be before Misty makes her appearance. The answer doesn't gladden me: forty-five minutes, at least. I stalk over to a bench outside a café and plop down upon it, dropping Eevee beside me. Nobody comes to sit beside me, enamoured of the spectacle as they are.

Why should they be? I bet Misty has parades like this all the time. What a waste of money.

As I sit, and wait, and read for a while, I eventually notice that somebody is trying to push through the crowd. It's the bedraggled security guard I'd spotted earlier, and he looks like he could use a breather. Squeezing past one exceptionally corpulent fellow he plods over to my bench and seats himself. "Wooooo," he exclaims, "what a goddamn nuthouse! I don't get paid enough for this!"

I ignore him and continue reading. He inhales air greedily and then lights up a cigarette.

"Whaddya think of the parade, though, eh? Pretty swanky."

"Yeah, sure."

"Cash funding it probably coulda been used in better ways, of course," he muses, "but hey, that's what parades are for! Eh?"

I find him instantly annoying.

"Eh?"

"I'm trying to read."

"So I see, but now's not the time. You should be up, having fun! Make the most of those tax dollars being poured into this. . . this. . . thing! Right?"

"I don't pay taxes, nor do I live here."

"You must be sittin' here for a reason, though."

"Whatever it is, it doesn't include you."

He blows a ring of smoke into the air and scratches at the faint stubble lining his jaw. "Got a cold one here, real cold. . . s'okay, though. I'm guessing you're a trainer?"

"Gee, what was your first clue? The Pokemon surrounding me on all sides, or the Poke Balls on my goddamned belt?"

"It was just a question! Excuuuuuse me!"

I set my book down and glare. "Shouldn't you be doing your job? I know you're a security guard. Go secure, or whatever, and stop bothering me."

"Hey, I'm on my break."

"Bodyguards don't GET breaks."

"Ahh, so I'm a bodyguard now?"

"There's no difference."

"There's a BIG difference, kid." He leans back on the bench and takes a drag of his smoke. "Security guards keep watch over valuables. Bodyguards, on the other hand, are expected to not only watch but to PROTECT the LIVING body they're appointed to. You have ta be willing to die for one of those professions."

"Fine. So which are you, since I know you're DYING for me to ask?"

He smirks. "Bodyguard, through 'n through. One of Champion Red's personal best, in fact."

"I figured. You've got that asshole's poor fashion sense."

He stretches the front of his shirt out in mock observance. "Bah, I didn't think I looked THAT bad."

"Change the cap. You probably get paid enough."

"What? No way!" He pulls it off his greasy hair and hugs it protectively. "This thing has seen me through thick and thin! I'd NEVER get rid of it!"

"You will once it gives you polio or typhus or one of the many communicable diseases its no doubt picked up over the years. Now will you go away already? Or at least shut up?"

"I'm so bored, though. All I do in these things is run around and look all professional. It's duller than you'd think. I need somebody to gab with now and then."

I wave to the rest of the crowd. "There's thousands. Gab to one of them."

"Ahhh," he says, "but they're all here for the show. Very few of them are around for what I'm guessing YOU'RE waiting for."

"And you just happen to know what I'm waiting for?"

"I can guess at it."

"I'd prefer you didn't."

He scratches Eevee's head and it growls affectionately. "You, young man, are here to observe Misty. You wanna see her Pokemon, 'cause you wanna battle her."

"And how do you know that?"

"'cause you're not interested in all the aquarium-style tail floating by." He points to one comely lass decked out in a bathing suit as she trots by on the street, her progress followed by the eyes of virtually every male in the crowd. "You look downright bored, when in fact most men would be – and are – drooling uncontrollably at Misty's girls. She employs mostly females, y'know."

"So I'd noticed."

"No, you're waiting for Misty herself. You want to see her Pokemon, and that's all."

"Bingo. You get the prize: a one-way trip to anywhere but here. Go on, piss off."

"I can get you an audience with her, if you want."

I ignore his words at first.

"I said, I can get you an audience with her."

Wait. What?

"Yeah, right. She's busy as hell."

He grins. I note the beginnings of nicotine stains on his teeth. "She's not as busy as she makes out. Most of the time she's just trainin' her Pokemon. She may be a total showboat, but Misty's no slouch when it comes to battling."

I ponder this. "Hmm. Well, if you can, then do it."

"Ah ah ah! There's a condition attached!"

"That being?"

He smirks. "Battle me. Once this parade is over, we'll have a one on one. If you win, I'll take you to see Misty."

Sounds fair. But. . . "Hrm. And if I lose?"

"Then I'm entertained. That's prize enough for these bones."

He's just a bodyguard. How good of a Pokemon trainer can he be? At the very least I'll get some training in.

"Only if we play by standard rules. If you lose you pay me."

"Sounds peachy!"

I think about it a moment more, then nod. "Fine. You're on."

His grin looks far too mischievous for my liking. "Excellent! Good, good! Right, I have to head back to work. Stay right here after the parade's done, alright? I'll be over again when I get off."

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead. I won't leave."

"Gooooooood. And be sure to keep your eyes peeled; your target's coming up. Until later!" He gallops off into the crowd and disappears, stopping only briefly on his way to allow who else but Old Man Weedle limited passage through the throngs of screaming loiterers. They exchange glances and are on their respective ways again.

"What did I just get myself into?"

Neither Eevee nor my Murkrow have answers to that, though Growlithe tries to respond with a short 'bow- wow'. I ignore it.

Ten minutes later, Misty floats by.

What can I SAY about Misty.

Surrounded by throngs of cheering admirers (not a small percentage of whom are male) she idles by on a foamy throne. Hell, throne doesn't quite do it justice: it's twice the size of Red's limousine, and easily three times as wide, edged on all sides by fake waves. Bubble generators and mist projectors give Misty (her parents must have appreciated puns) the look of a sea goddess: seated on a curving pedestal and enveloped in a faux ocean, Misty is the penultimate Water type trainer. She proves it moreso by having a Water Pokemon fawning over her on either side, a Starmie to the right, a Golduck to the left. The Golduck is polishing her nails while the Starmie uses its Swift attack over and over to shower her in stars (by the time they reach her head, drifting down from the sky as they are, they're harmless).

Seated before Misty on a downy pillow, waving rather distractedly to the crowd, is Red. He looks. . . fatter, than I'd imagined. The years of pampered Championship clearly haven't treated him well. He's decked out in a spick-and-span tuxedo, and looks thoroughly bored about the entire affair, allowing willowy young women to pop grapes into his mouth as he is. Contrasting it all is a baseball cap (much like his bodyguard's) sitting atop his trim black hair. I'm guessing he gave his old one to the guard (who, coincidentally, is sprinting around the float with wild abandon) when it got too musty to stand any longer. He looks older than he should, not a speck of his former brilliance left.

I'm somewhat disappointed in him, though I can't exactly say why. It's not like I expected anything more of him. Ignoring Red, I look instead to Misty's Pokemon.

Though they look pathetic in their grovelling act, they also look very, very strong. Both are exceedingly large for their species, indicating a fair bit of age and experience on their side: however, I can't confirm anything without a closer look. Besides, they're only two Pokemon, and I'm sure she uses at least four in personal battles.

Damn. I'd been hoping for more. But at least I got something, with the promise of more to come.

The bodyguard returns after the crowd has dispersed a bit, following Misty further down the avenue. "Ahhh, job done! The boss'll be fine now. He's past the worst points."

"Say what?"

He winks. "Guard lingo, kid. You wouldn't understand without lotsa explanation."

"Whatever. Are we ready to go?"

"Yup, ready and rarin'! But, y'know, I don't think we've exchanged formalities yet."

"Good for us."

He ignores that, stretching out his hand to grasp mine. It's well worn, and seen many of the cares of the world. "I'm Rouge. Hiya."

I don't take his hand. "Gee, a guy named Rouge guarding a Champion named Red. How ridiculously stupid."

"Aw, c'mon, don't rag on me like that. S'not my fault the boss likes themes."

I snort.

"Your turn. What's yer name, kid?"


	16. Chapter 16

Twenty minutes later we're headed away from Aqualine Avenue, on our way to our bout (though I haven't a clue where he intends to hold it).

We wander through the plazas and housing districts of Cerulean, talking a bit, but mostly on his side; for my part I remain silent. The entire situation is a bit surreal, an odd diversion from what I'd expected to be doing today. Rouge is quite a chatty bastard, and I swear he has something to say about damned near everything. He takes a shine to my Eevee, too, scratching it in all the right places. It purrs and closes its eyes in contentment every time he gives it attention.

"A bit small for an Eevee. Was it the runt o' the litter?"

"Probably. How should I know?"

"Was just asking!"

I ask him about Red a few times – out of boredom, mind you - but he's somewhat reserved on the subject. He is willing, however, to open up about Red's blossoming obesity.

"He's had a rough year. A couple of deaths in the family."

"What, like, his mom? Big deal."

"No," Rouge spits out, and for the first time I sense a crack in his easygoing demeanour, "his extended family."

"You mean his Pokemon."

"Yeah. His Pokemon."

"I don't get it."

"You saying you wouldn't feel sad if your Eevee died?"

I look down at Eevee (it's trotting between us, still looking a little haughty). "Eevee's not going to die, so that's a moot point."

He looks at me incredulously. "Everything dies, kid."

I shake my head. He doesn't get it. We walk the rest of the way in silence, and I suspect that the quiet serves to restore some of his good humour.

We reach the city limits within the hour and secure a place to stage our fight: a smoothly curved knoll, several hundred feet from the southern road out of Cerulean. And we're not alone, a few curious onlookers having gathered to watch our battle. I'd like to drive them off but a sense of pride pushes me to allow their presence (they'll give me an audience to gloat to when I win), and so I say nothing to them.

Reaching inside his trench coat Rouge retrieves two Poke Balls. "Care for a Dual Battle? I've got a pair that needs to polish its teamwork."

"Eh, I guess. Never done a Dual Battle before."

"There's a first time for everything! If you wanna be a successful trainer, you need to know how to Dual Battle."

"How do you know I'm not one already?"

He smirks, takes a final drag on one of his cigarettes, and tosses it beneath the sole of his boot.

"Yeah, whatever." I choose two Pokemon – Eevee and Growlithe – and send them out onto the field.

"That Growlithe looks a bit gruesome, but I'm sure it's a right pleasure to work with."

"Wouldn't know. This is our first battle."

"Oh? Lots of firsts for you today!"

"Hurry up, would you? I have things to do."

He taps his two Poke Balls together and looks around at the crowd. "Quite impatient, this guy, isn't he, folks?" Those in attendance nod in agreement, and I swear I hear one say 'he's a bit of a prick' to another. Not that I really care, but, you know.

"I don't care if I am. Let's get this over with." I'm losing my patience. It must be annoyance lingering from the earlier experiences of the day.

"Right, right. Keep your pants on; Misty isn't going anywhere. Go!" He heaves his Balls onto the battlefield, revealing two Pokemon I don't think I've ever seen before. They both look like Pichus but one has red stripes smattered about its body, while the other is blue.

"The hell are those?" I inquire, politely.

"Those," he says proudly, puffing up his chest, "are my Plusle and my Minun. I caught 'em in a place far, far removed from Kanto. You like?"

I observe them for a moment. "They look pretty weak to me."

"HA, I'll be sure to prove you wrong. Ready to start?"

"Now I'm not so sure. You could be cheating, using some weird foreign Pokemon that I'm not familiar with, while you probably know everything there is to know about mine. And in a style of battle I'm not used to. The whole thing seems unbalanced."

"Well, if you wanna see Misty," he says as he inspects one of his Pokemon (Plusle, I'm assuming, since its tail is shaped like an addition sign; how drole) "you're going to have to put up with a certain amount of unbalance. That's the way the world of the league is, y'know."

"Hmph."

"If you can't at least TRY to beat me, then you're not league material, kid."

"Hell to that. Fine, I'm ready, if you and your rat things are."

Rouge can't be too tough. He's just a bodyguard.

Rising, he slides his fingers across the brim of his cap; I assume it's for good luck. As I follow the curve of his digits I notice that Old Man Weedle has followed us out here, as well. I'm a little surprised the coot could make it this far, considering how decrepit he seems.

"Right. The battle has officially begun, then! Plusle, Minun! Helping Hand, both of you!"

I haven't a clue what that move is, nor do I care – I just move swiftly with what I DO know. "Eevee, take out that Minun. Use Quick Attack. Growlithe, use Leer before it gets there to lower Minun's defences."

My Pokemon begin to carry out their moves, but before they can I notice that the Plusle and Minun have joined hands (paws?) and begun to glow brilliantly. An electrical field envelopes them both, and they look energised - both are smiling and jabbering like crazy. Just as my Eevee is within striking distance the man calls out "Both of you, use Thunder Wave!" and within a split second my Eevee is spiralling past Minun, its muscles rendered useless by paralytic electricity. Growlithe's Leer attack has hit Minun, I can tell, but that means nothing if Eevee isn't there to land a blow.

"Damn! Eevee, get up! Stand!"

Eevee tries but fails. Its legs refuse to work properly. It whines and barks.

"Baaah, fine. Growlithe! Use Ember on the Minun!" I snap at the dog a little more harshly than I'd intended. Rouge, whoever he is, is a better battler than I'd given him credit for, and is already grating on my nerves.

"Plusle, Minun! Co-ordinate!"

As my Growlithe releases its first breath of fire at the pair they split up and head different directions at excessively high speeds. "The hell? That's not a real move!"

The guy grins. "Any move is real once you invent it."

"That barely even makes sense, you ass!"

He shrugs. The people around us 'ooh' and 'ahh' at his bravado.

I wish I had a Paralyse Heal to use on Eevee (it's still crackling away on the grass, struggling to get up) but my inventory is bare of items, save a couple potions for emergencies. The temptation to send my Pinsir in taunts my better sense, but I maintain my composure. If there's somebody I can't cheat against it's this guy.

"Dammit. Growlithe, go after Minun and try to Bite it!"

Growlithe complies and breaks into a sprint, keeping pace with the Minun that's still zipping around the battlefield. Plusle visually tracks them from the other side of the hill, moving in synch with Minun's exertions.

"Plusle, Minun! Cross Co-ordinate!"

"STOP MAKING CRAP UP!"

Banking hard to the left Minun evades the jaws of Growlithe. It sweeps in behind my Growlithe and puts on a renewed burst of speed – I didn't think Pokemon could move so quickly! – tiny legs whirring with the sound of a machine gun. It pushes up the grass in its wake as it dashes towards my Growlithe's hindquarters. Simultaneously, Plusle comes from the opposite side, heading for Growlithe's head (but Growlithe doesn't see it, as it's turned in an effort to find Minun). I know what's going to happen, and only manage to say "Gro-" before the two strike Growlithe in unison.

The next few seconds are brutal.

"Cross Step 2!"

Plusle and Minun switch sides and cross over Growlithe again, striking it with Quick Attacks and knocking it off-balance.

"Step 3!"

They do it again. All I can see is a red and blue blur intersecting upon my Growlithe.

--

"-in tech-"

--

"Step 4!"

Growlithe falls before the fourth step is complete, however, unconscious and badly injured. The crowd breaks into thunderous applause (well, as thunderous as seven or eight people can be). Plusle and Minun come to a skidding stop in front of their trainer, bow, and are put back in their Poke Balls. Rouge mirrors their showmanship after they're away and displays a winning smile.

I look at Growlithe. It's twitching, slightly, though I don't think it has suffered any permanent damage. Christ, one of those midgets left a dent in its mask.

I'm utterly humiliated, and want terribly to leap across the field and pummel Rouge's face in. Before I can, though, he comes to me, fingers extended in a show of decency. He's smiling; I'd like to take those teeth out and choke him with them.

"Good battle. Don't worry about losin'; my guys probably have more experience than yours. Guess you won't be seein' Misty any time soon, eh?"

I stare at his hand a moment, grit my teeth, and knock it away. "GET LOST! JUST GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

He draws back a pace but doesn't look surprised. He hasn't even lost his smile. "Hmm, sore loser, are we?"

I ignore him and draw Growlithe back into its Poke Ball. My fists are clenched around its prison. Were I stronger I would crush it as it sleeps for failing me.

"At least you live up to your rep, kid."

That gets my attention, and I swing around; but he's already walking away. The gathered people are following him, uncertainly, all too ready to leave me to my rage.

"GET BACK HERE!"

"Nope." He doesn't even turn around when addressing me. "Learn to control your anger, or you won't get anywhere. The gym leaders'll stomp you flat."

That does it. I rush at him, arms swinging, seeking a target. They find nothing, however, and in seconds I recognise the truth: he's a tried and true bodyguard. Maybe it's the grass filling my mouth as he pins me to the ground that helps convince me.

"Don't try and take me again, shrimp, or you'll be hurting next time."

I roar, but impotently. The lock he's got me in keeps me from moving. He's way too strong. The best I can do is kick my legs like some baby throwing a tantrum.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU ASSHOLE!"

"Sure I can. I'm an adult. You're just a kid. I can do whatever the hell I want to you."

Every inch of my corneas is coated with red (or they are to me, anyway).

"YOU. . . YOU. . . SON OF. . . LET. . ."

He pops me once in the back of the neck and I go under. Consciousness vanishes so quickly that I barely notice it depart.

I wake up a while later, my headache from earlier compounded by several times. There's a note pinned to my jacket; at my side is Eevee, its muscles relaxed. It's sleeping.

I read the letter.

'Sorry, kid. You got a bit too uppity. But you really should listen to what I said. I know these things from personal experience.

As you probably know, you're on the league's blacklist. Your picture came in just the other day, and I was on the lookout for you. Misty herself asked me to keep an eye out. She wanted me to deliver a message for her: you're to stay the hell away from her gym at all costs. I wouldn't count on getting a badge from her any time soon.

Oh, and just so you know: I never woulda been able to set up a meeting between you two. Judging by what she heard from Brock she doesn't want anything to do with you. But, y'know, I knew you wouldn't win, so I figured it was a gamble I could make. Thanks for the fun, by the way!

Rein it in a bit, kid, and you'll do fine. Until you do, though, you're just gonna get people hurt, yourself included.

See ya around! - Rouge'

I shred the letter up into little pieces and cast it into the wind.

Old Man Weedle is still there. He's watching the sunset (I must've been out a lot longer than I thought) from atop a strange little fold up chair, his back to me. Murkrow is on his shoulder, and for the first time I see it eating something: the Weedle on the crone's back.


	17. Chapter 17

Note: Sorry, y'all, but this chapter is kinda small. I've been rather busy these last few days doing essays. I thought it prudent to toss SOMETHING up, though, so here you go. I'll get something beefier up for tomorrow.

--

Old Man Weedle has decided it would be fun to follow me. No matter how much I swear, taunt, berate, or physically abuse him he plods after me, that damned bird on his shoulder. Why it took such quick liking to him I don't know. Hell, for all I care, they can take their chuminess and go screw each other somewhere far away from me.

After my humiliation I decide not to show my face in Cerulean again. Staying there is obviously fruitless. As such I decide to head south, towards Saffron City. I'll probably sweep right underneath the place and continue on to Vermillion, since it's traditionally the third stop on a trainer's agenda.

Not that my route thus far has been traditional. But still.

As the path falls way to my feet I fume over my loss to Rouge. The possibilities as to why I lost are endless: my Pokemon were weak, his cheated, HE cheated, he was stronger than he said, it was my first Dual Battle so I wasn't used to the form of one, and so forth. None of the arguments manage to appease me.

After two days of tiresome travel we arrive on the outskirts of Saffron. Somehow, the coot has managed to keep up with me, despite my stubborn refusal to slow down for him. Why the hell should I? I never invited him along. I'm tempted to send Pinsir out and have it attack him, but can't really be bothered. So I try my best to wear him out, but to no avail.

Needless to say, we don't talk.

Well. I don't, anyway.

"P. . . please. . . slow down. . ."

"Can. . . can we rest. . . I'll tell you. . . you. . . about Weedles as. . . reward. . . huff. . ."

"P. . . please. . . p. . . leeeease. . ."

I ignore him the entire way. I don't even bother to turn around and look at him. He's not worth my contempt. If he wants help he can ask that god damned Murkrow.

The night of our arrival I stop to set up camp (the tunnel underneath Saffron is closed until daybreak) and send Eevee out with Growlithe to gather fuel for a fire. Eevee has healed completely from the fight, but Growlithe is still a bit shaky; I take grim satisfaction in the fact by forcing the hardest labours upon it, telling it to chew down smaller trees so I can build a shelter. It looks like it might rain.

To my annoyance it does so without complaint. Eevee, however, holds me in contempt and spurns my company. It has for the last couple of days (probably because I've been treating Growlithe worse and worse). Why it has grown so attached to that Growlithe I don't know. What does it have that I don't?

Fortunately the heavens decide not to pour water down on us, and Growlithe's labours have all been in vain (much to my not-so-secret delight). It rests inside its Poke Ball, now, which I keep attached to my belt so Eevee can't release the mongrel.

We sit around the fire, Pinsir on one side, Old Man Weedle on the other (with Murkrow still on his shoulder), and Eevee on its bed across the way. I'd originally put it next to me but my churlish Pokemon had picked it up and, with some difficulty, dragged it around to the other side of the fire pit.

For the first time I address the coot. "Why'd you let it eat your Weedle?"

He looks up at me, no doubt blinking in confusion behind those thick sunglasses of his (why the hell does he wear them at night?).

"Let. . . the Murkrow. . .?"

"Duh, of course that stupid bird."

He thinks about it, stroking his moustache. "Well. . . you see. . . I-"

"Actually, forget it. I don't have all night. Just shut up."

"I think. . . that. . . oh, you don't. . .?"

"No. I changed my mind. Stop talking. And go away, while you're at it."

His eyebrows lower, saddened.

"Why do you wear such stupid clothing, anyway? Who takes tweed into the field with them? And a scarf? It's not winter anymore."

"Well-"

"I told you not to talk anymore. Shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

He doesn't angry. He just clams up. I continue to abuse his fashion taste, adding in criticisms of his age and (presumed, on my part) sexual preferences. Why else would he hang out with a young guy like me, after all?

We sleep. Pinsir stalks off into the night as we do, inflicting grievous injuries on the local Pokemon population and growing ever stronger as it does. Why couldn't my other two Pokemon be like that?

In fact, the next day, I find the remnants of one of its meals adorning my sleeping bag. Judging by the bones it was probably an Abra. I applaud Pinsir and give it a larger share of food that morning.

We enter the (reportedly enlarged) tunnel under Saffron and spend a few hours passing underneath. It has become a joint walk and causeway, with a path for hikers lining the edges of the tunnel and a pair of roads in the middle. Battling has been banned on the path but many trainers do it anyway, and I'll admit now that I partook of several duels. Old Man Weedle does too, using a pair of Weedles he has on himself and losing quickly. Hell, he goes down so quickly that I don't have a chance to get away from him during his battle.

"Why in god's name would you pick Weedles to obsess over? I mean, christ, they're useless."

He says nothing. I nod, satisfied.

Eevee is starting to act oddly again (and I'm not talking about its affection for Growlithe). It's really twitchy, and staggers a fair amount; more, it actually bit me once while we were in the tunnel, which is something it has never dared to do before.

I just wound the injury up in a spare piece of cloth. Since then it has kept by my side, repentant but still acting bizarrely. I think the incident has patched things up between us, though I'll doubtless find a way to exacerbate the issue once Growlithe has been released from its Poke Ball again.

We emerge from beneath the city and continue on into the fields of Vermillion, and as we do I find myself craving a new Pokemon to whip into shape.


	18. Chapter 18

I find myself utterly miserable at the moment. Despite the respite from poor weather I was given yesterday, I'm now faced with spring rains as I slog my way across the marshlands north of Vermillion. The going is slow, and I'm hit with a slew of complaints from both Eevee and Old Man Weedle.

(Growlithe, surprisingly, isn't complaining. I brought it out 'cause I knew it would hate the water, but it's not giving me any satisfaction in wanting to retreat into its Poke Ball, the little bastard. Having a mask to keep the rain out a bit probably helps.)

The only thing that pleases me is the abundance of Water Pokemon in the area. Ever since Pewter Eevee has not shown a propensity for using Water attacks (hell, its been a while since it performed any out-of-character moves) and I could certainly go for catching something that can. I cannot for the life of me, however, find one that appeases my sense of style.

Psyducks (there aren't many of these) look too stupid, and probably are. Poliwags are too small and slow. Tentacools have too many weaknesses. Squirtles are too main stream. Besides, none of these fit the 'me' factor that I have going.

Hell, Growlithe doesn't fit that factor, either, but I'm making do until I can trade it.

The marshes are a pain in the ass to get across. I find myself sinking into mud on numerous occasions, and the rain is giving me faint chills. There are clouds out, and the wind is whipping, but the rain is light; only for that can I really be thankful. Old Man Weedle has managed to surmount my difficulties by having equal amounts of inexplicable luck and umbrella. It doesn't seem as though he's even gotten wet, and his boots (what? He was wearing shoes before) look like they'd just been bought, spotless as they are.

Pulling my way through a dense thicket of trees (a nice little safe haven) I find myself tripping over every second root. The mushy ground is getting annoying, alongside everything else with this situation. I'm grimy, smelly, hungry, tired, and wishing for a shower. It's been ages since I last had one. A stay in a hotel would be nice. My limbs aching I plop down under a veranda of soggy leaves and a large, slick rock. My Pokemon seat themselves on either side of me, drying themselves with furious shakes of their fur; I yell at them for soaking me anew but neither one seems to listen.

Old Man Weedle pulls out his odd little fold up chair and sinks it down into the underbrush. We sit in silence a while, I on my rock, he on his chair.

"Gimme that thing. My ass hurts."

He doesn't budge. Murkrow caws at me.

"Give it up. If you're gonna follow me then you have to pay the fee, or whatever."

Not a twitch.

"Okay, old man. I'll take it from you if I have to."

"Why. . . don't we battle. . . for it?"

My eyebrows shoot up. God, easy win there. "You kidding? I'll beat the crap out of you. Actually, no, don't say anything. Sure, I'll battle you. Then your stupid seat thing'll be mine, and YOU can sit in the muck."

"One. . . on. . . one battle. First Pokemon. . . down. . . loses. Agreed?"

"Sure. As if it matters. You only have Weedles. My Pinsir could take on a legion of those dumb things."

We emerge from the thicket into the driest space of land we can find. I decide to use Pinsir, as it's at the least disadvantage right now: its been sleeping in its Ball for ages now, after all, and is fresh and ready for battle.

The old man plods his way over to the opposite side of the field (I yell at him to hurry up, which he sniffs at) and turns to face me, spinning his umbrella once. I can see Murkrow glaring at me from beneath its own, natural umbrella, still the same witchy creature it was the day I first met it. Both it and its chosen owner are prepared to fight, to win, and their gazes (though I admittedly can't see the old man's eyes) unnerve me in a way I'm not accustomed to.

Old Man Weedle tosses a Poke Ball, and from it emerges not the weak Weedle I'd expected but a vicious, whirring Beedrill. It darts about in the sky, creating a misty silhouette around its body as its wings beat faster than I can imagine.

Crap. I hadn't expected this. Pinsir isn't suited to fighting aerial opponents. I glare at Old Man Weedle as though he's betrayed me with his surprise choice, and find myself even further shocked: he's removed his glasses, revealing a pair of the steeliest eyes I've ever seen. They look utterly fearless. There's no doddering old fool here.

His voice rings out through the rain, loud and clear, reverberating with the power of thunder. "BEEDRILL! AGILITY, NOW!" A halo of twisting light envelops his Beedrill and it begins to descend rapidly towards my Pinsir. Its needles are poised to pierce my Pinsir's carapace.

"Pinsir, Harden! Don't let it get in!" My Pinsir folds in upon itself, making as small and compact a target as possible. Its shell glows and grows thick, bracing for impact.

I have a chance, in the confusion, to look at Beedrill's arms. God, but it's muscular.

Beedrill's Twineedle attack drives harder into Pinsir than I'd ever expected. It's thrown off its legs.

I gasp. What the hell? How the hell?

Old Man Weedle looks vaguely satisfied as he replaces his sunglasses.

Pinsir's defences have been breached, and it's unconscious, embedded deep in grassy mud with a pair of neat holes punched in its chest.

The battle is over.

"Holy. . . crap." I'm too dumbfounded to be angry. Too dumbfounded, even, to pull Pinsir into its Poke Ball.

Old Man Weedle looks satisfied beyond words, and I swear, I SWEAR, it whispers something to Murkrow before addressing me.

"I guess. . . the chair is. . . still. . . mine. BEEDRILL, RETURN!" The red eyed devil vanishes back into its Ball, gone as quickly as it came.

My fingers ball into fists and then back into useless, dangling digits.

"I just wanted. . . to see. . . how good you. . . are. I was wa. . . waiting. . . for a challenge."

He pauses a moment and taps his mouth. No, wait – the skin beside his mouth. I think he's mumbling something, but who knows? I can't tell, I'm just too angry.

I'd like to kill him but I'm rooted in place.

"Now. . . I'm off. You have a long. . . long. . . long, way to go. Goodbye."

Murkrow soars from atop his shoulder and comes to mine, stooping down on my soggy jacket. I barely register its presence as I continue to look at my Pinsir.

Old Man Weedle wanders off into the rain and disappears; his place in my life seemed like little more than a poorly constructed plot point, and now it's condemned to oblivion.

Distractedly I shoo Murkrow from my person and stagger over to Pinsir, Eevee close on my heels. Falling to my knees I put my hands on Pinsir's left arm and shake it.

"Wake up."

Nothing. Tiny streams of something darker than blood are starting to seep from its wounds.

"Wake. . . up."

The rain is growing in intensity. Pathetic fallacy? I shake harder, as it's not responding.

"Wake. . . up. . ."

It refuses to respond. Its eyes are tightly shut, and it's not breathing. Blood flows freely from its wounds.

"God damn you, wake up. . . I didn't waste all this time. . ."

I feel my legs sinking, ever so slowly, into the soft ground. I don't care about it. Eevee whines and paws at my side. The rain is pattering down on Pinsir's carapace and washing its strange blue blood into the soil.

"Wake up. . . wake UP. . ." I shake harder and harder, rocking it back and forth as much as I can, knocking my fists off of its hide in an attempt to either wake it up or expend my mounting rage.

Eevee is backing off, and Growlithe with it. They're probably not sure what to do. And you know what? I think they can both screw themselves. Every last goddamned person can screw themselves. Why is everything bad happening to me? Why?

I see red. The rain isn't cooling me off, it's boiling my blood. Everything has gone wrong so far, and despite my attempts to hide my discontent I just can't do it anymore. I'm sick of it. I've been beaten tons of times, had my attempts to fight derailed, lost the route to winning gym badges, and to top it all off. . .

I look back at Eevee and Growlithe, huddled together, Eevee sheltered underneath Growlithe, trying to keep dry. . .

I want to kill it for taking my only friend in the world. My partner.

Years of irritation and sorrow open up on me, and I want to take it out on Growlithe.

Growlithe, my enemy, my most hated of Pokemon. A creature that's only been around for a scant few days, yet has caused me so much pain.

But it's not here, it's not now, it hasn't failed me in a few days, and so my diminishing sanity pushes me to inflict as much damage as possible on the nearest breathing creature at hand.

Sliding out my survival knife, I lick mixed sweat and rain from my lips, shiver uncontrollably, and plunge my knife into one of Pinsir's smoothly bored wounds. It shudders once and dies; I'm surprised at how easily it succumbs, considering its past toughness, but that doesn't stop me from attacking it over and over again. Blood flies, I'm covered in it, I'm surrounded in gore; there's a buzzing in my ears that refuses to fade. I do it all without sound, save the dull slice of the knife against Pinsir's flesh.

This is all too surreal to be reality.

I think about a time my parents took me to a theme park, so many years ago. It was a fun day.

Eventually I drop my knife and collapse. The rain beats down around me, and in my despair I hope to die.

Only fifteen years old and already willing to die. When did things become so dire? I feel rage fleeing from my killing fingers, leaving only a life that has seen too much to stay simple.

Eevee watches me from between Growlithe's legs. I can see it watching me. Its eyes are filled with concern, and horror, and delight; it's unstable, as unstable as I am, and that's why I'm its master.

It emerges from the warm confines of Growlithe's underbelly and plods towards me. Each delicate step it takes reminds me of the path I've tread, and how short it's been so far. And with each step I can see it change: what once had one tail now has two, and its fur is shortening, becoming sleek. It twitches as it walks, moving here and there. Its eyes narrow. A jewel begins to emerge upon its brow. Yet it remains my Eevee.

Fairy light surrounds it and flies out to me, to my Pinsir, my poor, dead Pinsir. Despite its killing tendencies I valued it, not only for its power but for its company. It was loyal in its own way, and I was beginning to enjoy its presence.

What? Presence? I don't like such things. They're useless to me, attachments are; they just get you hurt.

--

"-nological achievement – "

--

My memories keep bombarding me and I try to quash them, but my heart says no, no: don't do that. Stop doing that. Where did you go wrong? What's wrong with attachment?

--

I can see my mother. She always had the most beautiful hair. But my father-

--

Eevee continues forward, its light wrapping Pinsir in willowy angel wings: its form is shining, so brightly, siphoning something from itself into Pinsir, and into. . . me?

I can feel Eevee touching me, and in its touch I can feel its taint. It's scared, and in it is a confused love of violence. But it loves to heal, too, it loves to make others feel good, to please them, and be pleased.

I shudder. I want to vomit. The memories come faster as Eevee glows brighter and whiter.

--

"Here, darling, here, some cotton candy-"

- My mother has it back, for once; -

"GET OUT, YOU USELESS-"

And, finally, just moments before the last:

"-in the field of Poke-"

--

Pinsir is in the air, now, and its wounds are being filled, and something in it is being fixed, it's being made whole, because something was wrong with it before but I can't tell what it was, jesus it's all so BRIGHT-

--

"-mon entertainment!"

--

It wants to fill me, too, but my scars aren't so easily mended. Eevee's power withdraws in disappointment. It probably thought that fixing me would fix it, too.

Eevee collapses, and the light is gone. I'm left with one final memory that I'd blocked.

--

That clearing didn't have six Pokemon. It had one, or rather, six in one: one that could not hold its shape properly. One that kept changing, from Eevee to Jolteon to Vaporeon to Umbreon to Flareon to. . . well, to Espeon, I guess.

But which one had broken my arm? Which one had carved a symbol of its rage into my chest? And why?

Does it matter?

Probably not. What does matter, though, is that I remember Eevee having a mask bolted onto its face when I first met it, a mask that popped off when it went wild and started evolving like crazy. A mask that left huge wounds in its face. Wounds that it had healed in an instant.

--

Just as it has healed Pinsir.

The big Pokemon is sleeping, not fitfully but peacefully. It looks downright comfortable in its natural waterbed.

Growlithe shelters Eevee's crumpled form and looks at me. I find myself lacking the strength to get mad at it. Instead, I lay on the ground, soaked to the bone, and watch as the rain falls.

I'm going to need another Pokemon. Yeah.

Later that day, after picking myself up, and my Eevee (it's in a coma), I catch a Totodile with Growlithe's assistance. How I did it is a story for another time, because, frankly, I don't remember how I did right now.

We pass into Vermillion City. Everything is a blur to me; I can't focus on any details, nor on the faces of those whom I continually bump into. I stumble my way down the streets, Eevee in my arms, and decide to leave it at a Pokemon Center. The nurses accept it with the greatest concern, both for it and myself: to supplicate them I leave all my Pokemon with them, save Murkrow (mostly because it's not mine), and stagger over to the closest motel I can find. I (probably) overpay the manager, avoid his pointed questions of "are you okay?" and "what happened to you?", go up to my room, take a long shower, and collapse on the bed. I sneeze for five minutes straight before my chest settles down.

I'm so tired, and I still want to die – but at least I'm finally comfortable. The bed is soft, and so I sleep.

I dream of my little Eevee all night long. And why shouldn't I? It's the only thing I've loved for a while now.


	19. Chapter 19

I wake up in a strange place.

It's all so unfamiliar to me: granted, I've known very little in my time here, but this. . . this is strange. It's not like where I was before, and it scares me.

There are strange creatures. They're tall, much taller than me by far, and they're leering at me with interest I don't appreciate. Their skin is black, and white, and everything in-between, but they're covered in something. . . something white, and I'm not sure what it is. It doesn't look like fur or flesh of any kind.

I'm strapped to a table. It's very cold. I shiver, and seek the warm attentions of my mother. She's nowhere to be found, however, and I develop the deepest sense of fear my life has so far known.

The creatures are gloating over me. Their tongues are rolling out unfamiliar words, phrases I understand only with the vaguest sense.

(Know now that my mind is currently subject to interpretation. I in no way can communicate as effectively as all this – however, it is best that you know, as succinctly as possible, what I'm feeling. It may not make sense, but at the moment, nothing makes sense.)

And they have things. Weird, foreign objects I have no chance of recognizing. All I know is that they look cold, and sharp, and unpleasant in the most general sense of the word. They are 'bad', and I do not like 'bad'; thus I try to break free, but I'm pinned down. And the 'bad' is introduced to me.

I pass in and out of consciousness, all the time crying for my mother, whether I'm awake or asleep while I do it. I can feel my body absorbing everything they do to it, and with the absorption comes a deeply rooted sense of violation.

Why are they hurting me, mama? What did I do to them?

It's so dark in here. So dark. Especially after they stick their sharpness in me.

I crave pleasure, but they'll give me none of it. I moan for kindness and receive none. They poke, and prod, and for a long, long time my fragile little mind wants to shut down. But they keep me torturously alive.

There are others around me. They're being tortured, too. I feel their pain intermingle with my own, especially when they die; but then the pain recedes, and I'm envious of them.

There's a creature who comes to see me, sometimes. He scares me more than the rest. He has a face that, despite its alien qualities, cannot hide its hungering for me. I'll never forget his face, not ever, especially since he personally sticks sharp things in me now and then.

I want my mama but they won't give her to me.

Time passes.

I decide that it's not proper for me to die. I didn't do anything wrong. THEY did. THEY hurt me, for no reason, and I want them to pay for it.

So I make them pay. When they stick a sharp thing in my side I shock them through it. They yell, and one falls down, shaking a lot; I hear 'heart failure' and am surprised that I know what it means.

I like watching it fall down. I'd like to see more of them do it. So I send out another shock, and another, and another. It hurts me, but right now what doesn't?

They start to duck under things, weird objects I don't have names for. The place is illuminated every time I shock, so I do it again and again, lighting the air with my glory.

But something doesn't feel right, and it starts to hurt more than ever. Something that had been on my face is trying to come off – why hadn't I known it was there before? – and my skin is pushing it out, rejecting it. I'm okay with that. But the pain, the pain, it's too much for me, it's hurting all of me, even my brain. . . it feels ready to explode. . .

And then I lose control, and I feel like I'm growing, and shrinking, and a thousand bodies are pressing out of mine at once, and I scream so horribly loud: and all around me there are sparks, and explosions, and yells and moans and dying and death. Why, mama, why is everything around me pain and suffering?

Suddenly I'm free, I'm on a floor covered in soot and blood. Things are burning. And I'm so very angry, so I make a few more creatures fall, and their strange white coverings light on fire. I can feel a fire in me, too, and it's forcing its way out of me, but its mixed with so much else: there's white and black and flame and cool and quick and just plain me, me, whose mind is exploding with glee and so much sorrow.

It's still too dark in here. I want more light. So I force myself up to the light. Doing so takes its toll on me, and I can feel myself losing a part of myself as I move; but I don't care, I don't care. I push through every barrier that gets in my way.

In my fury it takes me a minute to realize that I'm out, I've emerged into more verdant spaces, but that can't stop my rampage. Not yet. So I start to run, run as extra legs and fins and tails try to poke their way out of my frame.

The trees, the forest, it should all serve to placate my anger. But it doesn't. It only makes me wearier. My body keeps changing size and shape, and with it I can feel my energy leaving me. But I run, onwards I run, through forest, driving fear into its inhabitants as I go.

I pant. I sweat. I cry for mama, and for my brothers and sisters, all bigger than me but still so nice. I miss my family.

That longing converts to fatigue, and in time I collapse onto long grass.

Time passes.

My body still hurts, still hurts, and I want to transfer that hurt to somebody else. . . anybody. . .

"Hi there, little fella! You're an Eevee, aren't you?"

I look up and my eyes blaze red. There's something there, one of those creatures, and it's reaching for me, mumbling those strange, half-sensible words that I can't quite grasp. I growl at it, baring my fangs.

It draws back in sudden fright. "What's the matter?"

I spring up. I have my victim. Power is renewed; vengeance will be mine. I feel my fur grow very, very short, and as it does I leap forward and slam myself into one of the creature's appendages. It cracks horribly under my assault, and I hear a scream, a scream so unlike the screams of its fellows. It's so much higher pitched.

Not that that stops me. I'm fuelled by hate so thoroughly that I taste bitter sweetness on my lips as I lick them. Kill, kill, kill, kill. . .

It falls back, screeching, the appendage hanging limp at its side. It looks broken. Good. I revel in my work, letting loose a flurry of shocks that singe the air.

And, in doing so, I lose control again.

The bodies within return and try to force out, try to escape me; the fire is quelled by a torrent of water, electrified water, water murkier than anything ever seen. The elements rip around my body and knock me about, and I feel myself change so rapidly that I can barely keep up. I'm paralysed by the pain of it all. I stand, and scream, and feel things poking out of my fur and then going back in again, I feel my fur itself shortening and widening, catching fire and then scorching my tawny hide, turning from sleek to ragged to wild.

I want release, but before I get it, more creatures come. They're all black, with alien faces: but I can't stop them, I can't. I just hope that they'll kill me quickly.

But the small creature moves first. As the bigger ones approach me it dives in front of me, and jabbers something short that I don't understand: but I understand the panic in its voice, the pain from the wound I caused it. The big ones toss it aside and come at me, but it leaps back, and clings to one of their legs; that one, then, deftly removes the smaller creature and hoists it into the air.

"I WON'T LET YOU HURT IT, I WON'T!"

Something inside me flickers.

"Shut up, runt."

It takes a sharp thing from itself – I can't think of a better way to say it than that – and cuts the smaller creature. Only superficially, but I know it has devious plans in mind.

As I watch blood – yes, that's blood, I know blood when I see it – seep down the sharpened object, the weapon, and realise that that smaller creature had meant me no harm, and in fact wanted to rescue me, I. . . snap.

Again.

All of the big creatures die quickly. Despite their size they are weak, as weak as I now feel; but as I fade again I feel all of the bodies returning to me, diving inside of me and going back to sleep.

All but one. It remains, and for a few seconds I become it completely.

We're so weak, but we use what we have to heal the cut, and the injuries in our own skull. And then we collapse, and we become I again, and I sleep, and so does the creature that tried to save me.

When I wake up, not long after, I feel much better. I'm abounding with energy. The creature is not very well off, itself, but is better than it was, and I decide it's not so bad after all. It's looking at me with such awe and affection, foreign emotions in these troubled times.

I decide that it is my new family. And with it, I leave that place, and hope that it forgets everything that happened here, save that it gained my love in those few angry moments.

What a brutal place this world is. But it looks like it might get better now.


	20. Chapter 20

So I've found out that 'it' is a he, and he is my new master.

Master lives in a huge place. It's so nice looking: different from the bad place, but a good different. Everything smells really good here. And there are so many places to explore, not to mention other people who don't mind me being around.

I don't love them, though, not like I love Master. I just enjoy their company.

Master spends a lot of time with me, making me feel really good. We clicked really easily – he tells me all the time that he'd never met a wild 'Pokemon' before me, and that I was the best thing he'd ever come across. We play a lot. He helps me feel like a kid again; I'm almost tempted to forget what happened to me before.

I think Master has forgotten what I did to him. I think he forgot what I did to those 'men', those 'humans' (I've been learning a lot of words since I started living here, and I find it amazing the number of things that I just seem to know). And I'm glad he forgot both of those things, because if he remembered then he might hate me, and I don't want that.

I'm happy most of the time. Every now and then, though, I get strange little cravings. Master's parents keep lots of other 'Pokemon' around, too, and I like to fight with them. Most of the time they just run away to an adult, and I have to hide. But I'm never punished, 'cause Master always sticks up for me, and whenever he does people listen.

Unless they're his parents. Or his mama, anyway. I've never met his daddy. He's always on 'trips', which confuses me, 'cause I didn't think you could spend that much time tripping over things.

But his mama, his mama! She scares me sometimes! She's not mean, not really, but she likes to yell a lot. She's nothing like my mama, who was so quiet I don't think I ever heard her talk. Master's mama goes around the place, bossing people around, telling Master what to do, telling ME what to do. And I listen, 'cause his mama's always got a big purple slithery creature that follows her around. Another 'Pokemon'. I don't know what its name is, nor do I ask it, 'cause it scares me as much as Master's mama does. It looks like it could gobble me up in a single bite.

I do talk to the other Pokemon occasionally, though. I think they only do it because I'm Master's favourite, and they don't have a choice; but that's okay. I can live with that. They're nice to me even after I get the urge to start chasing them around. I like to nip at them, too, and jump them from high spots.

Master's mama didn't want me in the house at first. She called me a 'dirty little creature' that would 'muck up the rugs' and 'bring any number of diseases into the house'. But Master was adamant, and eventually she gave in. I don't think she really hates me, 'cause she usually gets Butler (there are lots of butlers, but there's only one Butler) to give me extra scraps of food when I look hungry.

I like Butler. He acts really silly. He's got the weirdest hair, too. Oh, and he has this big, purple, floating thing that follows him around. It smells pretty bad, but that's okay, 'cause it's actually pretty nice. Whenever Master's mama isn't around Butler complains to me about how she works him to the bone, and how 'things weren't like this in the old days', but I don't think he really minds.

I kinda think he's in love with Master's mama, but he doesn't much show it. Only when he drinks too much. I'm not sure what he's drinking, though.

Master got his mama to set up a room just for me. It's really, really big, and it's filled with every toy I could ask for. I still get lonely, sometimes, when Master's mama sends him off to school or church or wherever and doesn't let me go too, but this is all still better than the bad place.

I wander around the place a lot. I get into rooms I'm not supposed to, and more often than not Butler shoos me out. But now and then I get away from him, and manage to look where I'm not supposed to.

This one time I got into Mama Master's (I'll just call her that from now on) room. It's huge, and filled with pillows and pink things and trophies and a bed that stretches from one side to the other, and is big enough for thirty me's. Well, anyway, I got to sniffing, first around her slippers, then her hamper, then her bed, dresser, mirror (that took me aback for a minute), and make up case. . . and in the case I met my match. By the time Butler found me in there I'd smeared her stuff all over me. After consulting the mirror I'd noticed that I'd acquired a stylish blue tint to my fur. He freaked out and removed me, or at least tried to when Mama Master came in and yelled at both of us.

I think Butler would've hit me for that if he wasn't so nice. That's why I like Butler.

This other time I got into Daddy Master's room. It was harder than Mama Master's: his door had a bunch of locks on it. I can't remember how I managed to get around them, but I did.

I didn't like his room as much as Mama Master's. It was full of metal things. Master said Daddy Master was a 'sighenteest', but I'm not sure what he meant.

"Daddy works for Silph Co.," he told me. "He's got a substantial share of its stocks (whatever that means). Plus he's a genius. That's why we're so rich." He looks really proud of his daddy as he tells me this.

I'd like to meet Daddy Master some time, but he's always off working somewhere. I guess with this 'Silph Co.'. I want to ask Master what 'Silph Co.' means, but for some reason he never seems to understand what I say; am I not speaking right? I guess not. Maybe I'll learn some day.

There's a lot of things I don't know still. Like, what's the big black thing Mama Master likes to tap her fingers on? It sounds really nice when she does. I always curl up on the rug near her and go to sleep when she does. And then I dream of home.

Home. Is this my home? Or is the forest my home, back with mama and daddy and all my brothers and sisters? It kinda seems like a mixture of both. I wish mama and daddy and all my family could come live here with me in Master's house. It's such a nice place, after all, and there's so much to do in it; I bet I would have more fun with them around.

But it's okay. They're not going to come here, and I know it.

At least I have Master. Master takes care of me. Master and I do things together all the time, like go out for walks, and play ball, and tease the brown-skinned servants. I don't know why Master always picks on them, really; all he said was that Daddy Master does it all the time, too. Mama Master doesn't, and gets mad at Master whenever she catches him doing it, so we have to be really careful about teasing.

I really don't get it because I'm brown, too, and Master doesn't make fun of me (aside from that playful sort of fun that you know is light hearted). He doesn't hit me with his belt, either, like he does them. They always look really scared when he does, and he says he'll tell Daddy Master if they try to rat us out to Mama Master; so they just huddle back and say nothing.

Master tells me all the time about how he's going to become a trainer. I only have a vague sense of what he's talking about. He says he's going to train me, and then we'll conquer the league together, he and I and all of the other Pokemon that he's going to pick up along the way.

I get all happy and enthusiastic even though I don't know what he's talking about. I may as well, after all – he's my Master, so I'm going to end up doing what he wants me to do whether or not I want to do it myself. Which I do, 'cause it makes Master happy, and whatever makes Master happy makes me happy.

One time Master had to go to the doctor, and Mama Master let me come along. It was for a 'check up'. Butler's big flying purple Pokemon says they just look at your body and tell you if you're okay or not; Master must've been okay, since that's all that happened and they sent him right home. Although, I did hear the doctor mention something about. . . well, it started with an 's', I think, and an 'am'; I guess I've kinda forgotten what it was. It's weird how I know some things but not others. Either way, it was two words, and really complicated sounding. And they took a long time to get Master out of there, so I was worried, sitting up beside Mama Master and her big purple slithery thing.

(I'm sorry if I'm jumping all over the place, but I get so excited talking about Master and his house that I don't know how to start rambling, and when I do I can't order what I say, and I can barely think of where to stop.)

I'd like to go out and see the fields, and the trees, but for some reason Mama Master won't let Master out to do that. She gets really angry when he asks to go, and tells him to go play in the garden. But it's not the same; no, it's just not the same.

Sometimes, Master and I stay up late and look at the stars. It's really nice, especially when all the lights are off and you can see fireballs moving across the sky. Master says they're 'comets'. More, he says that, according to legend, they're the spirits of long dead Pokemon: Pokemon like Moltres, or Ho Oh, or even Zapdos. I don't know what any of those Pokemon are - at first – but then Master shows me pictures in his books, and slowly I learn.

Master shows me pictures of myself. Or, should I say, he shows me pictures of Eevees, which is what he says I am. He tells me a lot about myself, like how, one day, I'll change into something bigger and stronger than I am now, like a Jolteon or a Vaporeon.

That would be nice. It's kinda annoying being so small; I know that I'm tinier than the rest of my kind. It would be nice to be strong, I guess.

But. . .

Maybe I should just stay like I am.

It seems right.

Yeah. I like that. I think Master does, too.


	21. Chapter 21

One night, Mama Master invited all of her friends over to watch a play.

It was a school play, in which Master had the leading role; he told me while he was rehearsing (I learned that word from him!) that he was acting like some guy called 'King Henry the Sixth', and that the play was by 'Shake A Spear'. Apparently the play was named after Master's guy, which I thought was kinda nifty.

I don't really know why they call them 'plays'. There isn't much 'playing' in them; Master did a lot of work to prepare for his, running up and down the lengths of the house with a bunch of papers in his hands, yelling out his lines to every servant he came across. And he did it for days and days and days. He was really excited about it, of course, but I could tell that there wasn't any playing involved.

"Henry Sixth is a really complex play," he said. "We're doing Part Two, and I'm the King. It's the most important part. They only give the smartest kids the BIG parts, y'know." And he started to do this little strut that he loves doing when he's feeling cocky.

And Master IS smart. He knows so much more than I do, and he's always teaching me things; he told me that he goes to a special school, too, that only the 'privileged' teens go to. He has to get dressed up all nice and neat every morning before he goes out.

Oh, but, anyway. The play!

It was really neat. Mama Master brought everybody (and there were lots of everybody's) into this huge, HUGE hall underneath the house. Master told me once that it was Daddy Master's orchestra-something, and that he used to hold big concerts there when Master was just a baby. The servants (headed by Butler, of course) made it all nice, bringing in hundreds of chairs, and long tables filled with food (I managed to sneak quite a few tidbits while the show was going on, and Master wasn't on stage), and they hanged big red and gold tapestries all over the place, and there was this huuuuuge silk. . . cover. . . thingy, that they drew across the stage in between scenes. And everybody sat down, and mingled, and talked, and laughed, and watched the play.

The stage was nicely done. They had a whole bunch of fake backgrounds set up on it that I guess they swapped when they pulled the satin thingy across the stage. There was a sea, and a castle, and a street, but none of them were anything we would recognize; it looked like a lot of stone went into them. Kinda. . . what's the word Master uses? Rusty? I think that's it.

And the actors! Master especially! They looked so different from what they normally did. Master got rid of his trim shorts and replaced them with a big, flowing cape, with strange black and white fur trimming the top of it, and big billowy pants, and a crown that I've taken to playing with ever since. I love that crown; I like to wear it around my neck, and pretend to be as regal as Master was that night.

(I never manage to convince myself that I am, but it's still nice.)

Master got to talk second out of everybody, his friend Daniel going first; Daniel's name was something I can't pronounce. It started with an 'S'. Master could pronounce it, though, 'cause it was the first thing he said in the play, right before he kissed some girl's hand. She had a crown, too, but it wasn't nearly as nice as Master's.

Most of the time I sat and watched the play with Butler and his big floaty Pokemon, right near the front. Mama Master was playing her 'pee-a-no' (I learned the name for that one when Butler caught me going to the bathroom on it) through the whole play, and I'm glad she did, because she's really good at it. She looks really happy when she's doing it; I can tell that the real her doesn't like to yell that much, because it comes out all calm and nice and smiling when she's playing.

Butler kept his eyes on her the entire time. It surprised me that he did, mainly because Daddy Master was supposed to be there, too, and he could have been watching Butler. I may be young but I understand adult love pretty well, and I don't doubt that Daddy Master would've been quite angry had he seen Butler looking at Mama Master the way he did.

Master was really happy that his daddy was going to be there. Daddy Master had promised, promised weeks before on the telephone, had told Master that he would be there no matter what. I'm sure that's why Master practiced so hard, so that he could impress his daddy.

Daddy Master didn't show up.

Not as far as I could tell, anyway. And I think Master realized it when he was up on stage, because he kept looking out into the crowd, checking for somebody who clearly wasn't there. And it pained him, it pained him a lot. He looked desperate and small up there, not so much of a king once they reached the last scene.

By the end he looked really, really tired, but he still got all of his lines out.

I knew Master knew his daddy wasn't there when he said the lines:

Was ever king that joy'd an earthly throne

And could command no more content than I?

No sooner was I crept out of my cradle

But I was made a king, at nine months old.

Was never subject long'd to be a king

As I do long and wish to be a subject.

He sounded so sad, so lonely, and maybe that's why everybody applauded him. Somebody behind me said it was 'authetic'; only Mama Master looked like she was upset when he spoke, though she didn't stop playing her pee-a-no.

I wanted to go curl up beside Master and play with him until he felt better, but I knew I couldn't.

Butler's big purple Pokemon (its second head, that is) murmured "You could substitute 'son' for 'subject' and describe him perfectly" to itself, earning agreement from its larger mouth. I looked to them for explanation but neither one offered me anything.

Master needs his daddy. He missed his daddy that night, standing alone on the stage, with Mama Master playing away on the pee-a-no. I bet she missed her husband, too.

The rest of the play was great, like I said. Master didn't have many more lines so I tried to ignore him (which I find odd since I love him so) and I howled a bit as the satin thingy went across the stage for the last time. Everybody was clapping and cheering and standing, and then there was a big after party with lots of drinks and laughing.

I stayed there and had fun with all the people. I don't know where Master went, but for days afterwards he was kinda grumpy. And then he just sorta forgot about it, and everything went back to the way it was.

I still haven't seen Daddy Master. Apparently he's come back lots of times since I've lived there, but never long enough for me to see him; Master says that he usually shows up at night, after I'm asleep, and they visit for a few hours before Daddy Master has to leave again. Master says he's told Daddy Master about me, but Daddy Master doesn't much seem to care.

I guess he's got too much to do to care, so that's okay. As long as Master's around I don't much care either.

Master told me, though, about something his daddy said the last time he visited:

"I'm sorry I missed the play, son, but I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"I thought up something good. You see this?"

"This piece of paper?"

"Yes. This is a blank voucher. It entitles you to one thing, and one thing only. However, so long as that thing is within my means – no matter what it is – I'll get it for you."

". . . really? Seriously?"

"Yep. How's that sound?"

"I can have. . . anything, that I want?"

"So long as it's humanly possible for me, yes, you can have it."

"Hmmmm. . . okay. Thanks, dad."

"You're welcome. So, what would you like? Any ideas?"

"I'll have to think about it for a while."

"Okay. Smart choice. You have as long as you want to fill it out."

Master hasn't filled it out yet.

I think it's the best thing that could have happened, really. Just imagine it! Master can have ANYTHING! Even my little mind can come up with hundreds of things that I'd use it for. Food, a house to myself, moving my family here to live with us, toys, games, playmates for when Master isn't around, maybe some more food. . . oh, what else, what else. . .?

But Master doesn't seem to be as happy with it as I would have imagined. I think, if he was, he would have filled it out already, but he hasn't. He's keeping it for something.

I think I know what he wants to use it for. But, like Daddy Master said, it's only good for things that are possible; and by now it's impossible for Daddy Master to be a real daddy.


	22. Chapter 22

NOTE: Yes, I know the chapters have been sappy and dumb lately. I haven't enjoyed them that much myself. Don't worry, it's about to come to an end (and not just because I'm afraid of losing any readership – it was planned as such).

--

Maybe the wish is for today. Maybe, just maybe; because Daddy Master is coming home, and for the first time, I'm going to meet him, face to face. I'm so excited!

Master is, too, though he's trying to be cool, and keep it low-key. He's dressing himself very slowly and deliberately, picking out each piece of clothing and inspecting it as though it's a piece of meat from the market.

(I tried to get dressed, too, sliding myself under Master's crown from his play. He laughed at me and took it off.)

It's almost infuriating to watch him dress, 'cause he's just so slow about it. I can tell he's torturing me, that he knows I want to see his daddy as much as he does.

He looks at me, slyly, pushing his arm through one sleeve of a shirt he's picked out. My hopes rise for a moment, thinking that maybe, maybe, he's picked something.

He narrows his eyes. Mine do the reverse.

"Mmm. . . I think. . ."

I scratch at his leg. Come on, come on, he'll be here any minute! The servants are out, cleaning everything, there's a big feast waiting for him and his friends in the dining hall, and we're expected downstairs before he gets here! That's what Mama Master said and by god we HAVE to listen to what she says or she'll give us 'hell'!

(What's 'hell' mean, anyway? Master uses it a lot but never explains it to me. It's all very hush-hush.)

"I thiiiiink. . ."

I whine and whine, paw, paw, paw.

"That I don't like this one." He slides his arm out and puts it back. In response I bite his leg, and he hops off, yowling as though I've actually hurt him.

"Ow, ow, ow! RABIES! Little brute!" And then he dives at me and catches me in his arms, and I whap him in the face with my tail and struggle to get free. I yip at him, but only playfully; I'm having fun in my impatience.

"HURRY IT UP!" we hear, and the feud ends. Mama Master is getting annoyed. Master dresses himself quickly and slams his wardrobe shut, darting out of our room with me on his heels.

We scurry down the hallways of the house, passing a cadre of noisy servants, all making last minute attempts to ready the house for Daddy Master's arrival. They're carrying food, and flowers, and chairs, and even little statues, all to line the main hall of the house. Butler is directing them all, and above Butler is Mama Master, knocking him all over the place with her gloves and telling him to put this couch here and that bowl of punch there. It's frantic, and I only manage to escape the chaos by hitching a ride in Master's arms.

The main hall is huge. I love going out into it. It's long, really long, and it has lots of small rooms without doors branching off from it; I always picture it like a big tree, with a staircase covered in nice, scarlet rugs at its head. Master and I like to have races from one end of the hall to the other when there aren't any guests to entertain.

I watch the servants quickly arranging things to their liking (or, more specifically, to Mama Master's liking). I see a few flying Pokemon hooking up a big sign that reads 'WELCOME BACK, MAXWELL!' to the ceiling. I guess Maxwell is Daddy Master's name, though I'll probably never call him that to myself. I see Butler standing on the staircase, calling out a hundred different commands, and Mama Master beside him, telling him "NO, NO! THAT GOES THERE, THAT GOES THERE! GET IT RIGHT, PEA BRAIN". I see the statues lining the place, and they all look the same; but they're not statues I've ever seen before.

They look like Master, except older. And meaner.

But why do they look meaner? They're all smiling.

I don't trust that smile.

So I go over to inspect one, jumping from Master's arms. He follows me but doesn't stop me. I hop up onto a nearby table and take a long, good look at the statue.

"Get in PLACE!" Mama Master says as she drags Master away from me. She doesn't seem to notice that I'm on the table. Master tries to retrieve me but Mama Master tells him to remain at the foot of the staircase.

A memory sparks, and with it, some pain in my side; I feel. . . sharpness. The echoes of something my time here has made me forget. I've been here for so long, already, and yet it seems like the passing of a dream!

I move in closer. There's more pain, now, and I feel faint; I waver, just a bit, but manage to press a paw up against the statue's face. I come eye to eye with it, and in its eyes, those crafty eyes, I feel and see so much of my own misery that I can scarcely understand it. I only hurt so much when I was captured, trapped… I was trapped…? Yes, I was, I was strapped, strapped down to that horribly icy table all those months ago. I've forgotten it as easily as Master forgot that I hurt him.

I hurt him. Just like this man hurt me. Even back then I knew he was a man, despite his alien qualities; back then, even, I referred to him as 'he', because I knew, I knew.

This is the face of that grotesque human that took so much delight in puncturing me with needles (yes, I know the word for them now); he who tinkered with the fabric, the core, of that which is me. He made my life a living hell, he made me want to die.

I sway, back and forth, and hear music; Mama Master is playing her pee-a-no again; the doors at the end of the hall are opening, and the statue, in the flesh, is stepping through, the head of a legion of white-coated creatures whom I so desperately hate. They're all looking around, clearly not prepared for a party; in fact a lot of them have weird masks on, and they're carrying… what are those…? My mind isn't working properly.

They spot me after Daddy Master points me out, yelling "That's it! I want it sedated NOW!" to the men in the white coats. A guy beside Daddy Master with a black thing on his face nods and starts running towards me, and a bunch of other creatures – no, humans, they're human beings – march after him, all coming my way.

I want to hurt them.

I can feel so much pain, all the memories are coming back, oh the pain, the pain. . .

Can I make THEM hurt instead, mama? Can I set their coats on fire like I did before?

Can I make them fall down and die?

Everything's moving in slow motion now. I look around and see everybody: I see Butler, shocked, with his great purple Pokemon floating nearby; I see all the servants, the maids and the butlers, the brown and the pink (but I still don't understand the different between the two); I see Mama Master's slithery thing, looking as remorseless as ever.

I see Mama Master herself, moving away from her pee-a-no, and I see that she's not surprised, but she looks sad, as though she'd expected this to happen. She looks mad, too, in her sadness; as if she doesn't know whether she should cry or scream.

And I see, at the foot of the stairs, straining to get to me, my Master. He looks scared, and desperate; but Mama Master is holding him fast.

I remember when Mama Master held a birthday party for Master in this very hall, just a few weeks ago. She'd invited all of his friends (and he had lots!) and they'd all gathered here, surrounded by servants and gifts and cakes and food of all kinds, and I'd sat on Master's lap as he opened his presents.

Mama Master was watching, then. She was happy. But, at the same time, she was concerned. She kept looking at me, in this bereaved, panicky sort of way.

Like she didn't want me near Master anymore.

So, I guess. . . I guess she knew this was going to happen.

Oddly enough I'm not mad at her for it. I guess I like her as much as Master, even though she's scary at times.

Mama Master, you'd better keep Master safe when I'm gone.

I love you, Master.

I fall from the table, letting loose the greatest shriek of my life; and then, I lose control.

I watch what happens next as though I'm disembodied. I'm floating above it all, an invisible cloud of melancholy nothingness that's interested in seeing the suffering its rain is about to bring about. And pain I bring, pain in great amounts; because I can see the limbs poking out of me again as I stagger to my feet, the bits of body that shouldn't be in me. I see water spilling out on the floor around me, staining it with an inky, blazing, impossible stain. I see strange yellow lights peering out from beneath my fur, and I watch as my fur expands and shrinks. I hear myself howl, and I can feel the scorch of its power on my constricted throat; but my body doesn't care how much that scream hurts, obviously, because now it's throwing itself at the advancing men.

They shoot things at my body. I'm dimly aware of blossoming numbness in my legs. But my legs don't care, because there are lots of other legs twisting their way out of my sides to help with the onslaught. Daddy Master yells "God dammit, hurry! If it degrades too much it'll be worthless to us," and I don't know what he means; but I can feel the bloodthirsty urges of my body, and I know it wants to fill him with electricity until his heart stops. It wants to kill every one of these disgusting creatures, and. . . do I want to, too?

My body and I have a strange duality going. We seldom agree on what we want to do. Yet a part of my mind agrees with my body, a dark corner that I don't let out very often. A corner that creeps its way into my limbs at the oddest times, pushing me to be violent. And that corner's growing bigger, and I'm not sure if I care enough to stop it.

I guess it doesn't matter anymore.

Three of the creatures are down. I applaud my body from up above. The servants have all but abandoned the room. Tables are on fire; my body (bodies?) have managed to smash four of Daddy Master's statues. The air smells of cooked flesh as humans sizzle under my sustained fury. They keep pouring their firepower into me, and my hide is covered in sharpened projectiles, but I carry on.

I'm trying to reach Daddy Master. He's still near the entrance, watching, watching as his man with the black thing on his face (he looks like some kind of bug) orders his own men to take me down.

I realize that my body and I have become one again, and my control is back, and I know why: my dark corner has, for now, become me. I'm allowed to fight of my own accord, and fight I do. I leap at one man, my bulk expanding in midair, and I break his leg. He falls with a short yelp. I take a shot from another man and nail him in the face with a blast of water. It's superheated water, I've warmed it deep within my gullet, and I can tell from his screams that his face is melting.

I lick my lips and sway. I sway, I sway, I think of delicious carnage, and then I take a sharp thing to the chest. I fall.

My corner shrinks away, and I shrink with it; the other me's return to their proper places, sleeping beneath the muscles and bones of my tiny frame. When will they come out to play next? Will there even be a 'next'?

God, but I hurt. Please help me, mama.

The last thing I see is Master breaking from Mama Master's grasp and running towards me.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Apology: Sorry for the incredibly long delay between updates. School, amongst other things, kept me from doing any more work on this story. Now, though, I have more time, and I intend to finish it off. Here's hoping I recall where I was going with the story (I remember, for the most part, and re-reading it all has brought other tidbits back) and that I don't just vanish again. I really would like to see this bastard's life outside the Pokemon League through.

--

It's been three months since my encounter with Old Man Weedle. It feels more like a thousand years, to tell you the truth, but ninety days is the span of it.

I've spent most, hell, nearly all of the time in the wetlands around Vermillion. Their thick grasses offer a plethora of Pokemon for my team to beat the crap out of. And I've taken advantage of their presence, deploying all four members of my team into the field simultaneously to wreak havoc on the natives.

My Growlithe – yes, it's my Growlithe, whether I like it or not – has grown by leaps and bounds, and I mean that quite literally. Its land speed has nearly doubled, and the muscles are bunching up beneath its thick fur. The near-constant rain seldom bothers the thing; I guess its coat has something to do with that. I'm seldom treated to a display of its firepower, but that's okay, as I prefer beating my enemies senseless with physical force than using long-distance, elemental attacks. I still harbour a great deal of resentment for the dog, but so long as it continues to perform as well as it has been I have little reason to complain.

The little Totodile I captured all those ages ago has since blossomed into a ferocious Croconaw. It's a mischievous thing, always pulling pranks and bellowing out laughs with that caveman maw of its. I'd probably have gotten rid of it had the thing not proven itself admirably powerful in combat, with strong arms and a healthy disrespect for holding back. It's reckless with its water attacks. I love that in a Pokemon. Granted, I've been caught by a blast of water more than once, but I can put up with such nonsense if it'll give me the results I need.

Pinsir has changed the most of out my Pokemon, I think. Though still fairly vicious, it has gained a degree of sentience previously lacking in its tactics. Being repaired by Eevee seemed to affect not only its body but its mind, and I can't help but wonder what was wrong with the thing's brain to have turned it into an unreasoning brute. Now it hunts with a great deal more savvy, opting to sneak up on opponents rather than simply charging into the fray head-first. I imagine I'll never know exactly what happened to it in the past to reduce its intelligence, but clearly whatever it was has since been undone. Time will tell what else Pinsir's capable of.

I'm rather depressed to say that Eevee has improved the least out of the lot of them.

Maybe I'm too easy on it. Lord knows I feed it more and lavish it with more affection than my other Pokemon. It's just. . . well, Eevee's a bit lazy. Ever since it pulled that transforming trick a while back it has shown little interest in battling, and routinely ignores my commands in a fight. I've had to pull it out in favour of something more obedient on more than one occasion. It doesn't snub me anymore, but has definitely chosen Growlithe as its favourite, leaving me in a secondary position.

This doesn't help things. There are days when I really, really wish Growlithe wasn't a good battler. I'd toss its Poke Ball away as readily as I did with Hitmonlee. Or perhaps I could put it in a freezer, and leave its ball to crack and fail, killing its occupant. . . the possibilities are endless, yet I know I can take none of them. Oh troublesome world of mine!

Oh, and Murkrow is there, as always. Its eyes won't leave my campsite for so much as a minute. I haven't managed to catch the damn thing eating again, but I swear I will one of these days. It spends most of its time perched atop my tent, secreted away in a small cave I discovered in one of my many forays.

By now you've probably wondered why I'm spending my time here. The obvious answer is that I'm training, and it's a good one. I am training. In my despair I was forced into realizing that my Pokemon are, despite my delusions, hopelessly weak, and will require intense amounts of training to ever stand up against a gym leader. As such I've pushed all of them to their extremes (except Eevee, which I regret), and my efforts have paid off. Doubtless I could handle a normal gym challenge with ease by now.

And I have proof. I've battled damn near every trainer in and around Vermillion, and as of this third month I've beaten most at least once. None of them like me – they all feel my methods to be too extreme (god help me, I've tried hard to tone myself down) – but I've garnered a reputation for being a difficult opponent, and that draws customers. I suppose spending the lion's share of your time in the wilderness helps, as I've grown quite accustomed to my surroundings, and often use them to my advantage.

Take, for example, a battle I had just the other day. It was against a known and unwelcome face: the red-headed twerp from Mt. Moon. I couldn't help but toss a smartass remark his way about his hasty departure from the depths of the mountain, too afraid to keep going.

"Yeah, well, you're just lucky you didn't get your rear eaten by that monster!"

At which point I released my Growlithe, in all its masked glory. "Oh, you mean this monster?"

The teen took a step back, shocked, but managed to regain his composure. "Bah, you're lying! That couldn't be it! What the hell did you do t'its face, by the by?"

"None of your business. You here to battle, or what?"

He checked the sky. It was a rare, rainless day for the fields of Vermillion City, though clouds still threatened to send forth droplets at any time. I recalled him boasting about his Magmar, and I knew he didn't want to risk it getting poured on.

"C'mon. I've got a Fire Pokemon, you've got a Fire Pokemon, it'll be even if it rains. Grow some balls."

He roared at me and jabbed one finger in my direction. "Don't say I didn't give you a chance to back down!"

"You didn't, really."

"Shut up!" He snatched a Poke Ball from his waist and dashed it down onto the soggy ground, where it spewed forth its contents – a mid-sized Magmar, spewing forth gouts of flame from its grim beak. I'd always thought them to be ugly creatures, and took time to insult his.

"Nice. Do they all come complete with brain tumours, or is yours just special?"

"That's IT! Magmar, Flamethrower!"

And so the match was on. Growlithe dodged to the right, making use of the wet ground to skid a bit further than it normally would have and cleanly avoiding the flame. I shouted out for it to quicken its pace with a dose of Agility, which it did. I'd realized a while ago that doing so always caused a few beads of blood to erupt from beneath the screws in its mask (Agility doubtless pushes blood to pump faster), and so I took particular delight whenever giving the order.

The teen huffed, slicked back his hair (it still looked horribly dyed), and ordered his Magmar to fire again. Doing so carved a path through the grass but caused little damage, as the tall reeds were too moist to flare up and burn. And, again, Growlithe avoided the attack, keeping well away from the Magmar and hiding in the grass, as I'd always instructed it to do. The canine was unusually gifted in performing covert manoeuvres when given the chance to tread quietly.

"Where the hell is it? C'mon out, you coward!" The Teen was growing impatient despite the battle having just started, and continued to order his Magmar to fry the general area. I noticed after some time that its flame was lessening in intensity. It was tiring. What a stupid trainer.

Even stupider, too, that he'd pulled it out in front of a puddle. There were lots around, mind you, but that was no excuse for poor placement. Once my Growlithe got behind his Magmar I ordered it to tackle the fiery bird from behind, sending it into the water with a burble of surprise. This surprised trainer even more than Pokemon, as he'd not noticed the Growlithe prowling around his feet. I ordered it to hold the Magmar down in an attempt to smother the fire dancing about on its limbs. Growlithe did so, albeit reluctantly; I knew it preferred a fair fight.

"Hey, no, stop! You'll smother my Magmar! Get the hell off!"

I didn't want Growlithe to. I wanted it to just stay perched there and keep the Magmar down. Despite its size my Growlithe was physically more powerful, and its legs would not yield. I wanted to punish this flame-haired retard for being so stupid. But…

"Will you give in if I do?"

"What? No way!"

"Keep it up, Growlithe."

Growlithe complied. Eevee, at my side, shuddered; I could feel the ferocity in its tiny bones bristling up against my leg. Bloodlust again, huh?

"Hey, hey! Be reasonable!"

Magmar's struggles were slowing. Its face had been dunked deep in a combination of water and grass. Its trainer looked like he wanted to jump in but was afraid that Growlithe, with its bloody visor and bared teeth, would attack him instead.

"Forfeit already."

"Baaaaah. . . alright, alright! You win! Just get it off!"

"Growlithe! Off!"

Growlithe did so; Magmar sputtered up from its long drink and plopped back on the ground, bedraggled. Its fire-quenched body looked a lot less impressive compared to a few moments ago. Its trainer cradled it in his arms, offering soothing words as I walked away with my winnings.

I think that's a clear enough example. I've trained hard and won my way to the top around here. Even passers-by don't stand a chance. But training isn't the only thing I want to accomplish out here.

You see, there are rumours in town that Lieutenant Surge, the esteemed leader of the local gym, has recently retired, and that a decidedly weaker trainer has taken his place. And though they no doubt share the same Pokemon for in-gym battles, once outside. . . well, you know. Fighting a new guy will be a lot easier than Surge.

So I've been spending my time in the wilds, hoping for a chance to meet this successor – whoever he is, I've yet to find anything else out about him – and beat the living snot out of his Pokemon. And if he's as weak as I imagine he is, the guy will probably want to train. And where better to train but the fields around Vermillion?

So we sit tight, and fight, and win; and I wait for my plan to bear fruit. And, one day, it does.


	24. Chapter 24

I'd been screaming at my Croconaw – it had torn a strip out of one of my pairs of pants, a new set that I'd just bought (it's true, I don't steal EVERYTHING I own) – when Eevee came scrambling into the cave as fast as it could. Its paws scratch lightly against the soft stone ground, pushing up puffs of dirt in its wake. Growlithe comes bounding after it, much to my dissatisfaction. Both are quite excited, yipping back and forth to one another.

(Croconaw uses the distraction to waddle its way out of the cave. I can hear it snickering as it goes, but catch only a brief glimpse of brown corduroy trailing around the mouth of the cave. For something with such stubby legs it sure is fast.)

"Whaddya want?" I grunted, pulling on a different pair of slacks. I disliked these, as they bore a few holes; but a fray here and there is always preferable to a missing crotch.

As always the Pokemon are uncommunicative. What else do I expect? All they can do was bark at me. Eevee zips around behind my leg and tries valiantly to push me forward, which, given its small size, is rather difficult. Instead I pick it up, stroke its fur, wrinkle my nose at the dampness of said fur ("What the hell have you been into today?"), and peer at Growlithe with critical eyes. It raises one paw in the air, as if to beckon me after it, and dashes back out of the cave. Eevee punctuates Growlithe's lead by nuzzling my arm with its nose.

"Ahhh, fine… better not be a waste of time, though, I was just getting ready for breakfast…"

And so I have been. According to my watch it is seven in the morning. I usually refrain from training until nine, and spend the time beforehand reading and eating. Today, though, I pull on my boots (my shoes were swallowed by mud long ago) and trek out of the cave.

It is the middle of summer, now, and the air is humid. Storm clouds off in the distance tell me that today will be like any other day around Vermillion. I have a hankering to pull my shirt off but refrain from doing so, as the mosquitoes in the early morning will eat me alive.

(As always I wonder if you could catch a mosquito in a Poke Ball. Somebody has to ask these questions, y'know.)

Growlithe leads me on through the tall grass, past groups of skittish Paras and a few brazen Spearow, to a clearing that I've often trained in. It boasts a small hillock that proves a superior choice to sloshing about in the muck all day.

Today, however, it is occupied by an unexpected visitor: a gangly, middle-aged man with wrinkled skin and light blonde hair. He has a pair of ridiculously long boots on, and is propped up on a cane embedded deep in the wet dirt of the hill. He looks to be sleeping.

I've not seen this man before, yet like all local trainers he looks prepared for the elements. His shoulders and neck are protected by a thick poncho. Maybe he doesn't get out often? Either way, I'm already hyped to challenge this new man, in the hopes that he might (though I can't expect that Surge would arrange a replacement older than himself) be the new gym leader.

"Hey! Hey, old man!" I called out. "Wake up!"

The man doesn't bat an eyelash, but responded promptly. "Oh, so you're here, then?" He yawned and smacked his lips.

Growlithe comes to a rest at my heels and looks up at Eevee. I refuse to let Eevee down, despite its best attempts to get back to terra firma. I'll resist their friendship as best I can. "You sound like you expected me."

"Oh, I did, I did. If you're the one I'm expecting, that is." He opens one eye, looked me over, and closes it again. "Yep, that's you."

I tense, but only for a moment. Apparently my reputation had preceded me. "Guess I made more of an impact than I thought."

"Did you ever, young man. The Early Morning Club sends its regards, by the way."

"The Early Morning Club? What kind of retarded name is that?"

The man straightens and swings his cane around. He was watching me, now, full of merriment. "It's matter-of-fact, that's all. And I'm one of the founding members."

"So you're to thank for the dumb name, then."

"Only partially. I'll admit that it lacks flare, but nobody's awake to criticize us most of the time, so. You know."

"Not really."

"Ah, kids these days. . ." The man extends his free hand; clutched tightly in his fingers is a Poke Ball. "Allow me to get to the point. We of the Early Morning Club wish to challenge you to a series of duels."

"Gee, I'm flattered. A bunch of old men want to pick on a fifteen-year-old."

"Actually, if I remember correctly, you're sixteen, now. Your birthday was last week."

I stop cold. Tension runs thick in my blood; and, soon, it is joined by anger. "How. . . how the hell do you know that?"

"We've been checking up on you. News travels quickly in this world, and it's good to be prepared when it comes knocking on your doorstep. Particularly when said news is as brutal as you're purported to be."

My reputation really has preceded me, but I'm beginning to think it had been spread by Brock, not the trainers of Vermillion. I want to snap at the man but he cuts me off.

"I can practically see the veins popping in your head, young man. Calm yourself! I'm not here to chastise you for your misdeeds! Rather, I'm here to present you with an opportunity!"

I force my rage down, and at the same time wonder when I'd developed such a temper. I'd never thrown hissy fits as a kid. "What. . . kind, of opportunity?"

"We of the Early Morning Club have a close association with Vermillion's gym. Or, more specifically, with its new leader. He is amongst our ranks."

I'm cooled by this revelation. It explains their knowledge of my past battles, and excites me with its prospects. "Is he, now."

"He is. He has learned of your reputation and would enjoy battling you. And he knows all too well that you must do so outside official gym protocol, which is something he revels in. He is not one to follow the rules."

"Somebody after my own heart."

"Indeed." The man stifles another yawn. "He has decided, however, to impose a restriction upon your battling him."

"And what's that?"

"First I must explain the nature of the Early Morning Club, I think."

I sniff. This is going to be boring. Eevee continues to fidget in my arms, and I, annoyed, drop it to the ground, where it playfully attacks Growlithe. Somewhere off in the distance I can hear the heavy crashing of grass, and know it to be Pinsir, stomping about and looking for breakfast. It must be in a foul mood, as it now usually hunts in relative silence.

"Normally trainers begin their wilderness hunting around nine or ten in the morning. I'm sure, having lived out here, that you know this well."

"Sure, why not."

"We of the Early Morning Club are dedicated battlers, like the rest of you; however we prefer the calm of the dawning day to fighting in the midst of the afternoon drag. We find our minds work best if we battle shortly after waking up, which, I'll admit, comes exceedingly early in the morning."

"How early?"

"Three-thirty."

"Even in the winter?"

"We haven't been around long enough to test that." The man smirked.

"You're crazy either way."

"Possibly so. At any rate, we find the still air conducive to clearing our thoughts and training our Pokemon. And so our leader, the head of the gym whom you so desperately seek-"

"That's an assumption."

"A correct one."

"Meh."

"- would like you to battle us in the morning. All four of us."

"Huh? I don't mind beating the rest of you up, but I only really want to fight the gym leader. You're free to take offence to that."

"Fighting the other three members of the Early Morning Club is amongst his conditions for engaging you in the first place. If you do not, he will refuse to reveal himself."

"So I have to beat the other three of you before he'll take me on?"

"Correct."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. You must find and defeat us all before nine o'clock. Once it is past nine we all go home for the day."

"Wait, 'find'? I have to look around this soggy hellhole for all three of you?"

"Yes, indeed. Consider finding me a freebie."

"That's bullcrap."

"That's the world you live in, young man." A sly look seeps into his crinkled cheeks. "The moment you decided to assault Gym Leader Brock is the moment you stepped outside mainstream Pokemon battles. Now you must fight under specialized rules. Trust me, our leader could have chosen much more difficult conditions for combat."

I knew it was true. My hasty nature had cost me. But what do I care of such things? I am who I am, and I'm happy with that. There's lots of people out there who can claim to some kind of moral superiority but who are completely fake. At least I'm true to myself.

Aren't I?

"Have you nodded off, young man?"

I shook my head. "No, I was just contemplating how badly I'm going to beat you. Ready to lose?"

"Perhaps I am. Is a one-on-one battle sufficient?"

"Sure, whatever. Do your worst, pops."

"As you wish." The old man tosses his Poke Ball, I order Eevee forward, and our match begins.

--

Since this battle will practically take care of itself, I think it's time to address a matter of some concern to myself, that being my memory.

I've begun to notice considerable gaps in my memories. Not that they weren't there before, of course; I know all too well that the time at which I first met my Eevee is spotty, at best.

Yet there's more to it, now. I've begun to notice that I can't remember what it was like living with Eevee at first. Details of our life together are in my brain, but they float about in some sort of amorphous mess. It's a jumble of images and feelings that don't manage to join together very well.

For example, I don't remember what happened when I brought Eevee home that first time. What was my mother's reaction? Had she been angered? That sounded like her, but. . . she could have been happy, too. Memories of my mother are fleeting. (Which is weird, since she's alive and well in Viridian.) And what was my father's reaction? Had he welcomed Eevee with open arms?

What had my father done?

I seem to remember him doing something terrible. But was that right away? Or had he waited a while?

I just don't remember.

I wish I could ask Eevee. Surely it knows.

Maybe then it could tell me why it slashed my chest. I know it broke my arm, so it must have done that to my chest, too. Maybe then it could apologize, and we could be friends again, and we'd be able to move on from all this.

Why did Eevee hurt me? I know it had been out of control, but which of its evolutions comes complete with razor-sharp claws?

--

I leave my self-revelry to discover that the battle has, indeed, handled itself. Eevee's opponent – a Weepinbell – lies crushed into the mud outside the clearing. Eevee is pummelling it with vicious hind kicks. The man, far from his previous bravado, is pleading with me to stop hurting his Weepinbell.

"Enough, Eevee," I whisper, though distractedly. Its ears prick up and it comes galloping over to me, a bit of greenish juice (plant blood, maybe?) on its snout.

The man is rushing over to his fallen Pokemon. His eyes are wide open, now.

"So where's the next of you losers?" I inquire casually, watching Eevee, wondering again and again why it is so damn vicious.


End file.
